Home Invasion
by Sherlock.bbcfanfiction
Summary: A home invasions turns ugly for Sherlock and John. Established relationship. slash, multi-chapter story people, make sure you are in it for the long haul. Angst and fluff. M for torture in later chapters and one scene of Smut.
1. Home Invasion

Hello everyone, this story is amazing,

I'm going back to most of the chapters and editing them because I'm ashamed at how bad my revision skills have been.

I love reviews.

Peace&Love

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><p>The rain shower, falling hard upon London. The streets damp and puddles litter the streets.<p>

John Watson limps impatiently down Baker street. His old injuries surfacing at the insufferable weather. He desperately seeks warmth through a cup of tea and his boyfriends embrace. As John stumbles to the front door of the flat he wonders idly if Sherlock is even in. The streets of London have been his playground for the past couple of days, something about a murder suicide that was just a double homicide. John tries listening when Sherlock explains things, but sometimes he can't understand over the mumbling.

He steps out of the rain into the significantly warmer confines of the flat. Silence stifles John as he hangs his wet jacket. Mrs. Hudson is visiting her sister again, that only means Sherlock and John don't have to be quiet.

The doctor climbs up the stairs. The flat is absent of glass clanking and violin playing. Sherlock must be out. His mind wonders to the warmth of tea in his cold hands. He rarely gets the flat to himself, he almost doesn't know what to do first. He can watch crap telly without Sherlock rattling on about how trivial it is. He could read without being interrupted by violin. The possibilities offer another warmth to John as he reaches the landing to their shared flat.

He pushes the door to the sitting room open. He freezes, he shouldn't have misinterpreted the silence.

John stands in the doorway, staring at a man, burly but well built, he wears a wrinkled button down shirt and simple black trousers. This man stands opposite of him, leaning against the window frame, staring out, as if the window holds the answer to a puzzle.

"What-" John starts before a surprising fist comes into view, interrupting him completely and knocking the army doctor onto his back. His already aching shoulder sends jolts of pain through his body when it connects with the hard floor of the landing. His face smarts and he moves to sit up. The same fist pummels into his face, directly into his nose. John knows immediately that his nose is bleeding, if not broken. He moves his hand up to his nose to try an staunch the flow. Before his hand reaches his face, another smack sends his pain receptors into overdrive. The punch sends his head straight into the floor.

John vision starts to blur against his will. He tries to block the punches but his head isn't sending the necessary commands to his limbs. He knows unconsciousness is going to come soon.

The punches finally stop. John tries to roll away from his attacker but ache in his head renders him immobile.

He hears a distant call through the fog of his brain. Blackness is fraying around the edges of his vision, but he knows that voice without seeing it.

That voice belong to Sherlock and he was calling his name.

Panic courses through the veins of the army doctor. Sherlock is here, he isn't out. If they were willing to beat up a doctor who interrupts, John couldn't fathom what they were doing to his boyfriend. Once more, John tries to sit up, pain and exhaustion cause him to fall once again to the floor.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John mumbles before blackness takes a hold of him.

* * *

><p>The first thing the doctor notices is pain. Pain in his head, throbbing, informing him of his concussion. John's eyes remain shut, his head lolls against his chest. He catalogs any other injuries. His shoulder aches, but that's nothing new. Parts of his face are throbbing with pain, bruises no doubt will be forming shortly thanks to the punch happy intruder. He feels blood on his lips from his nose.<p>

John moves to other parts of the body. He is sitting up, his back against something with cushions. He shivers unexpectedly, a cold draft worms its way around John and settling on his back. Why would he be suddenly colder? They must of moved him. He is next to the window, against the couch. _And Sherlock said he had no deduction skill._ John scoffs silently at the thought.

His head throbs painfully as the doctor opens his eyes. Harsh light invade his retinas, he turns his head away from the window. He tries to push the pain to the back of his mind. He looks around the room, his vision a little blurry and blackness around the edges a little bit.

"John?" a faint whisper catches the older man's attention. John instantly tries to stand up, and fails. His body barely moves. He feels around, his hands are behind his back, ropes carefully tied around each wrist, holding them in place to the leg of the couch. The coffee table is nowhere to be seen. How he doesn't notice that he is tied up before now is a mystery. He twists and turns his body, trying to pry the restraints from his hands. He tugs at his wrists, trying to get them free, or even trying to move the couch, a moment of panic invading his already fogging mind. He can feel the rope beginning to rub his skin raw against his panicking wrists.

"Calm down John." Sherlock breathes. John stills instantly. _Right_, John thinks. Struggling is useless, the ties are not going to budge. His takes deep breath, calming himself down and willing his lungs under control from the previous struggle. He scans his eyes lazily around the room. The intruders are nowhere to be seen. Did they leave? Why would they do that?

"John." Sherlock interrupts his thoughts again, this time impatiently. The doctor's fuzzy eyes find the detective's gray eyes. He sees the icy gray through the haze and smiles despite the situation. Sherlock's lips curl up slightly. He considers the genius, looking for signs of injury. His face is almost equally bruised and bloody. The younger man is tied to one of the wodden kitchen chairs. Ropes wrap tightly across his thin chest and legs. His hands are behind his back, no doubt tied with ropes also. He would have already broke his thumbs and taken care of the attackers if he was restrained by regular handcuffs. John glances around the room once more looking for any signs of...well anything.

He finds nothing, even he doesn't know what he is looking for, weapons maybe, something to untie the both of them. John returns his gaze to his boyfriend. The younger man's eyes convey warmth, concern and a slight twinge of disinterest. Only Sherlock Holmes would find being tied to a chair during a home invasion boring.

"Where are they?" John whispers.

"They are searching your room now, I believe. They shouldn't be much longer." Sherlock answers with a matter of fact annoyance.

"Who are they?" John asks.

"Home intruders. They were inside and woke me up from a nap." Sherlock responds with a huff.

"Random?" John questions with disbelieving tones, no way is this a coincidence.

"Nothing to suggest otherwise. I don't believe in coincidences." Sherlock states, reading John's mind. Again.

John nods in agreement and promptly regrets it. His head pulses, the pain, which he has been able to push away for a little bit, becomes annoyingly present. John's vision obscures the sitting room, he leans his head back slowly against the couch as the ceiling begins to spin slightly. John lets out a quiet groan in protest and shuts his eyes.

"John, Are you okay?" Of course Sherlock notices. The detective's voice is thick with concern. Despite the situation, John is suddenly pleased with the concern, it mean Sherlock really does care for him. He swells a little with pride that he got the proclaimed sociopath to care. A morbid thought given the reason. However, John shouldn't be surprised, they share 'I love you's everyday.

"I'm fine." John mumbles through thought and pain.

"John. Look at me." Sherlock demands quietly. John opens his eyes and winces against the light and the blurs of the shapes. He looks in the general direction of his lover.

"Honestly, Sherlock, it's just a headache." John says blinking, he's not sure if the young man believes him.

"We will get out of here." A defiant statement.

"I know." John sighs. "Is it bad that I'm getting used to things like these." He adds with a smirk.

"Probably." Sherlock chuckles lightly.

"Are there only two?" John asks and then he hears loud footsteps coming down the stairs. Sherlock nods quickly.

"I love you." He says. John focuses through the haze and sees the blue eyes piercing the doctor. A true statement. A promise.

"I love you too." John says, his own promises radiating off the statement.

They both look towards the door expectantly, once the footsteps from the stairs silents.

* * *

><p>Two men stroll happily through the door and into the sitting room. Their expressions are a dark contrast to the situation. The front man is the man John knows from the window. His shirt even more wrinkly in the front. His trousers full of dirt. He is older than the second man, definitely well built. His stance suggest an almost army background.<p>

The second man is younger significantly, but he is definitely the muscle. His hair is short, military style just like the older mans. His arms are covered with muscles, no wondered his was able to subdue Sherlock. This man wears a simple t-shirt that seems two sizes to small and his trousers are impeccably clean. How are these two related? Father and son, partners. Their hygiene seems completely different from each other.

"Ah. I see the love bird is awake." The older man almost coos with excitement. The tone causes John to go stiff. The older man walks steadily to the doctor and kneels down beside him, blocking his view of Sherlock and the second man. He hovers over John and eyes him up and down. John shifts awkwardly at the attention. The sudden adrenaline from the situation pushes the pain away and bringing his senses forward in a focused determination.

"Good, now I will have time to play with you." The older man says.

"Go to hell." John states clearly, he is not going to play this madman's game. He survived Moriarty, he can survive some idiot who is stupid enough to break into their flat and then threaten his boyfriend.

Anger flashes through the man's eyes. He brings a hand towards John's face, who instinctively flinches away. No impact comes and just like that, the anger is gone and the man laughs.

"Oh come on Johnny boy." The man says, slapping the doctor's already bruised face. John pales.

"What did you call me?" John asks already knowing the answer.

"Don't be dull, Johnny, Moriarty sends his regards. He really would have liked to be here this time." The man says rubbing a thumb over John's face. John grows even paler. Of course it is Moriarty, he should have just assumed. That bastard won't leave them alone. The doctor's eyes flash with anger. He arches his back and tries to move away from the man.

"What does want Moriarty this time?" Sherlock calls impassively from the opposite side of the room, to distract the intruder away from John, no doubt.

"Don't worry Johnny, we are only here to maim not kill." The older man states ignoring the detective, moving his fingers down the struggling doctor's torso and resting them on his hips, holding him still, his fingertips painfully digging into his sides. Add that to the list of bruises for tomorrow. "We get to play a little." He adds with a smile. John closes his eyes and remains silent.

"Don't touch him." Sherlock yells across the room, all attempts at being neutral fades. "Get off you stupid bastard. Go tell Moriarty to come himself." Sherlock continues. John listens to his boyfriends rant through closed eyes. Then he hears a snap of the finger and Sherlock is silent. John opens his eyes frantically and struggles against the man in front of him, trying to see around him. "Stop, what did you do?" John cries, struggling against the binds.

"Nothing, my pet. He's just silenced. See?" The man says moving out of John's sight, Sherlock's scarf is tied around his mouth. He eyes are wide in concern, concern for John and a flash of anger for the situation. Anger at Moriarty, at the men in front of them who are no doubt going to hurt John. Sherlock conveys revenge in those eyes. The man moves himself back into the doctor's vision. He picks himself up and straddles John's legs.

"What are you doing? Get off me you bloody arse." John says, rocking his hips up and moving his body around, writhing in the uncomfortable proximity.

"Sebastian said you'd be a fighter." The man says, John stills as realization flashing across his face stupidly. Of course Moran would have a hand in picking these thugs. That explains the military presence of them. "Good thing I like fighters." The man says bringing his hands across the heavily breathing chest of the doctor and slowly moving down to grip his hips again.

"What should we do first?" The man fakes contemplation. " I know." He lifts one hand away from John and puts it behind his back. "I've got just the thing. Close your eyes Johnny." The older man demands, of course John refuses. "Don't be like that, close your eyes." The man insists. John's eyes remain open, staring into the dark green eyes of evil in front of him. The man sighs and then snaps his fingers again. John hears a muffled breath from across the room, he sits up straight a peers around the man before him. The younger silent man has John's Browning is pointed right at Sherlock's head.

"No. Please, I'll do anything, just don't hurt him." John pleads.

"Oh I know you will." The man says patting John's cheek. "Now close your eyes." John takes one last look into the stormy cloud colored eyes across the room and obeys. He shuts his eyes and prepares for what's next. The man drags his hand slowly down John's chest and underneath his jumper. John flinches at the ice of the unwelcome hand. The hand rubs all over the doctor's torso, pinching his nipples, causing John to yelp in surprise. John then feels the cool of something else. The man slips a knife under the jumper. John solidifies his stance against the blade.

"We must get rid of this." The man murmurs. John hears the rip and his chest becomes instantly colder. He feels the fabric move to his sides, leaving his chest bare. "Well built for a doctor." The man smiles. "I know you aren't going to enjoy this as much as I am." He adds menacingly.

A sudden pain erupts from John's side, he can feel the knife cut a deep gash on his hip. He knows how deep they are. He is going to need stitches, probably a lot. "Open your eyes, Johnny." John complies. Piercing forest green eyes stares back at him. The man moves to the doctor's other side and slides the knife, making an identical cut. John tenses in response and closes his eyes against the pain, trying not to scream.

"No, I said open your eyes John." The man says and drags the knife down his torso, leaving a deep angry red line. John's eyes shoot open, gasping as tears threatening to cloud his vision once again. Might bleed out from this one.

"You know you have beautiful eyes." The man says leaning forward. John knows what he is going to do, he is powerless to stop it. The man forces his lips upon John, running his hands up and down the doctor's bloodied chest, the friction stinging and aggravating the cuts. The man cups John's face, smearing red everywhere. John doesn't move. He lets the attack go. He moves his mind somewhere else. The lips push forcibly into the doctor's mouth. The man's teeth grip John's and bite his lower lip, blood bubbles to the surface.

The man breaks the kiss off, gasping for breath. He moves his lips down John's neck, nipping and nibbling the pale skin. John remains still in shock. The man bits down hard on John's shoulder, John gasps as he breaks the skin and blood starts going to the surface of the bite mark.

"Sir. The time." The younger intruder speaks. John tenses in surprise. His voice was deep and throaty, unexpected.

"Ah yes." The older man says jumping to his feet putting the knife in his back pocket. "Thanks Johnny." The man says. "That was fun but so much to do so little time." John doesn't dare look over at Sherlock, for fear that he would break in those weathered and cloudy eyes. He instead follows the man as he moves over to the book case, seemingly looking for a good read. "There was only two things that the boss insisted." The older man says, grabbing the heaviest book in the flat and meandering back over to John.

The man snaps his fingers again and the younger man is over by John, untying one of his hands from the couch leg.

"What are you going to do?" John asks, more to distract himself for the inevitable pain.

"I think you know Doctor Johnny." The man chuckles. The younger attacker grabs John's free hand and lays it flat against the floor, gripping John's forearm to keep him still. John struggles against his hold but to no avail. John looks over to Sherlock who has tears in his eyes. John lets his own tears streak down his face. He mouths an 'I love you'. Sherlock nods.

"This is really going to hurt. The boss doesn't really like your blogging anymore." The older man says and with that brings the book down with powerful force. All the bones in John's hand scream in protest as they break and possibly shatter. The sudden pain rips through John's body at an alarming rate, almost causing him to pass out. He screams, shutting his eyes, hoping the pain isn't real. The weight of the book leaves his hand and John whimpers at the pain racing through his body. There is no holding back now.

"Once more for good measure." The older man says and slams the book against his hand again. John's yells echo the flat. Tears spring freely from his eyes and he faints from the pain.

He wakes up thirty seconds later to the older man slapping his face. The sting vibrates through his whole body.

"One more thing before we go." The older man says, taking the gun from the youngest intruder. "I'll be sure to tell Moriarty about the fun we had." They both chuckle.

"Go...to hell." John gasps out between breaths.

"Not yet." And with that he points the gun at John. The doctor can hear the muffled screams of Sherlock and doesn't look at him. He stares down evil.

"Oh relax Johnny, maim not kill remember." The older man says, and with one quick movement he pulls the trigger. John screams again. His shoulder erupts in the worse pain he could ever imagine. Worse than Afghanistan. The older man drops the gun on the floor and kneels over the Doctor.

"That really was fun." He plants a kiss on the doctors lips. John tries to move in protest but everything hurts. "I'll see you soon." The man says and with that both intruders are gone.

John's head moves to the left side staring at the gun shot. The bastard hit him in the same shoulder. John gasps and whimpers as the pain racks through his body. His broken hand lays uselessly on the ground beside him. He tries to tug his other hand free. The rope seems a little looser. He pulls hard and fast against the rope. He looks at Sherlock whose eyes are puffy and red. Defeat in his eyes.

"It's okay. I'm okay." John says. He tugs at the rope but it still won't come loose. John remembers something. He can still feel his phone in his pocket. He could reach and get it, with his broken hand. Either that or bleed out. He looks over at his boyfriend. Sherlock is shaking his head, of course he knows what he plans to do.

"It's the only way." John says. Fast, do it fast. John grabs his bottom lip between his teeth, better than biting off his tongue.

With all the courage he can muster, John lifts his hand onto his thigh. "Fuck, oh bloody fuck." John exasperates. Even moving his hand hurts. John calms himself and takes deep breaths. He feels himself getting dizzy with the gunshot and the cuts. He is losing blood and fast, Sherlock is going to have to watch him die. That will not happen. John slides down so he can be as horizontal as possible. He uses his forearm to nudge the phone through the pocket and up towards the entrance. It works. He bits his lip to distract him from his shattered hand. He continues pushing the phone up until he sees it peeking through opening of the pocket. In one quick motion he grabs the phone with his hand, yanking it painfully out of his pocket falling to the floor beside him.

"Fuck. OH my fucking bloody fuck." John screams. He shoulder aching, his breathing quickening, bloods is pooling around him. It won't be long before he loose unconsciousness.

He uses his elbow to dial. Mycroft or Lestrade. He decides on Mycroft who can get here faster than anyone.

The phone starts ringing. John slumps towards the phone, his ear to it. His breathing is still quick and his vision becoming fuzzy. He's going to pass out, on the phone to his boyfriend's brother. Oh great.

Two rings, three rings, on the fourth ring he finally answers.

"John." Mycroft says on the phone. Nothing in his voice giving away the surprise he feels.

John's visions swims in and out. "Hel-lp-p." John mumbles unintelligent.

"John, What's wrong?" Mycroft asks calmly.

"Baker Street. Ambbbulance." John says laying his head on the cool floor next to the floor. He could fall asleep here, it is so nice and soothing. He knows he should be do something, but the adrenaline and exhaustion and pain are immobilising him.

He can hear panic in the distant, someone calling his name. Blackness tunnels his vision and he can hear something muffled as he worms his way into subconsciousness.


	2. I Need You

Okay this is a short one, but the next part won't be long.

Thanks for the reviews everyone

P.S. I suck at angst.

Peace&Love

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><p>Sherlock POV<p>

John. John. Sherlock screams through his gag. His boyfriend lays unconscious next to the sofa. Nothing else moves, the world stops, Sherlock only sees John's chest rising in falling in less than steady increments. He bucks against his restraints, he twists and turns frantically. He refuses to just sit there, while John, his John, bleeds out.

An idea strikes the genius. A stupid and completely insane idea, but an idea nonetheless. Sherlock doesn't hesitate, he leans his body forward pushing all his weight onto his restrained feet. He plants his feet firmly on the ground and stands up in a very crooked, bent over sort of way. He estimates this idea has a seventy five percent chance of success and that's if he can get the right leverage. Sherlock rocks back and forth from his tiptoes to the balls of his feet to gain momentum. In one swift movement he pushes himself up, off his feet and falls through air, landing flat onto his back.

Pain erupts throughout his back, but the chair gives way and breaks under the strain, pieces of wood lay around the genius. The ropes around him crumble. Rolling onto his stomach, the genius winces in pain, his hands still bound behind his back. He struggles against the ropes, wishing they suddenly become looser.

No such luck.

Sherlock rolls painfully to his back again and slowly sits up straight. The young man shimmies his hands down his body around his backside and around his feet, successfully bringing his hands to the front of his body. He stands up in a panic and runs to the kitchen, nearly knocking over his microscope and experiments in his haste. He cuts the ropes off with a knife, dropping the restraint on the ground.

"John. John." Sherlock says frantically, running to the limp man, falling to his knees in front of the unconscious body. In one cut, John's other hand is free. "No. No. No, Please John wake up." Sherlock yells, grabbing at John's neck looking for a pulse. A weak beat throbs beneath his fingers, a sigh of relief slips from his mouth. "John." Sherlock almost wails, he pulls the doctor to him, cradling the older man in his lap, moving a little away from the couch for more room, and being very careful of the broken hand. The detective, places a hand on John's shoulder to try and staunch the blood. His eyes frantically search the room. He remembers the phone.

In one swift movement he picks up the phone.

"Mycroft." Sherlock cries into the phone. Blood seeping through his fingers, John face growing pale.

"Oh thank god, Sherlock what is going on?" The older Holmes asks, not even bothering to mask the panic in his voice.

"Moriarty," Sherlock says, rocking John in his lap. "Mycroft please. They shot him. They shot him in the shoulder." Silent tears are flowing freely from the detective's eyes as he continues to put pressure on the gunshot wound.

"I'm on my way, so is an ambulance. What happened?" Mycroft asks, concern actually prevalent in his voice.

"I can't." Sherlock says. "John." He cries hugging the older man close. His chest rising and falling at shallow intervals. Sherlock drops the phone and reaches for a pulse point, again. It's weak, barely there. "Mycroft, hurry." The detective pleads loudly to the empty room, knowing full well that his brother has never witness this kind of desperation from the younger Holmes.

Sherlock can hear sirens in the distance.

Sherlock cradles John, hugging him tighter. "John, you have to stay with me, because I need you." Sherlock grips the doctor's wrist and breaths with John's fading pulse.

Tears run down Sherlock's face. He pushes harder on John's shoulder, sadistically hoping the pain wakes him up.

* * *

><p>Mycroft bolts into Baker Street. Emergency vehicles are everywhere. He runs, yes runs, into the flat and up the stairs to see his brother, his umbrella lays across the front seat, left forgotten in the car.<p>

At the landing Mycroft freezes. John Watson lay unconscious, flat on his back while three paramedics work around him. Blood covers every inch of him. Mycroft doesn't get shocked but something makes him stare at the sight longer than necessary.

It takes him a moment to hear the screaming. He moves towards the door and turns his head in the direction of the screaming.

"JOHN! NO! I have to see him. LET GO!" The younger Holmes is fighting against more paramedics, the detective trying to get closer to the doctor. His arms are flailing in awkward circles, grasping the empty air, maybe hoping to connect a fist to the ones restraining him.

Mycroft walks over to Sherlock, the screams echoing the room in horrifying clarity. The younger Holmes doesn't acknowledge his brother, his eyes only concentrating on John.

"Sherlock." Mycroft calls. The genius doesn't answer, tears fall shamelessly down the detective's face, his voice is getting hoarse and breaking with disuse. "Sherlock!" He yells louder stepping into his field of vision, grabbing his brother's shoulders. The yells stop abruptly. Sherlock stills, blinks and looks up at his older brother.

"His heart stopped." Sherlock sobs, all the fight gone, his legs swaying at the confession. Mycroft looks to John and immediately sees the chest heaving.

"They got it working again, Sherlock look at me. He's breathing." Mycroft says, turning his attention back to his brother. The emotion erupting from the younger man is unsettling. The last time Mycroft remembers seeing this kind of breakdown was when he was seven and Sherlock had woken from a bad dream. "Look at me." Mycroft repeats stifling the sentiment.

"N-No. I have to watch J-John." Sherlock hiccups between sobs, eyes focusing past Mycroft, silent tears running down his cheeks.

"Sir, he has a hunk of wood sticking out of his side." One of the paramedics still loosely restraining the younger Holmes, says.

"Sherlock they have to take care of you." Mycroft says, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder to get his attention.

"I will not leave John. Ever." Sherlock says viciously and stubbornly, he pulls from the arms holding him and walks closer to John. Sherlock hovers over the working paramedics, his eyes blank but focused. Mycroft sighs, and absently moves next to Sherlock, placing his hand once again at his shoulder. To steady the young man or in preparation to hold him back, either way he knows that until John is at the hospital Sherlock won't do anything anybody tells him to.

"Bloody hell." A voice from the door exclaims. Mycroft turns to see Greg entering the flat. "What the hell happened?" Lestrade says walking over to Sherlock, his eyes glancing briefly over Mycroft, a soft sympathetic frown only for Mycroft.

"Intruders. Moriarty." Sherlock says absently still watching the paramedics work around John, they are getting ready to move him. Sherlock tenses under Mycroft's grip as they move the doctor onto the stretcher, and out the door. Without a word Sherlock is running after them, flying down the 17 steps and out the door onto the street.

Mycroft follows hastily and he sees his younger brother jump, very gracefully into the ambulance, immediately grabbing John's hand and riding off with them.

Mycroft and Lestrade look at each other, grabbing each others hand for comfort, and then looking back as the ambulance drives away.

* * *

><p>The halls of the hospital are quiet, thanks to Mycroft. A private floor, Sherlock can only guess how he pulls these things off. Of course, if he thought about it more, he could know exactly how Mycroft gets these special privileges. But he cannot, his brain isn't thinking properly right now. It's focus is on all things John.<p>

The limp body of the doctor is lying on the hospital bed. Bandages are wrapped gingerly around his torso, hands, and wrists.

Sherlock stands at the window, staring, willing John to wake up. It's been ten hours since they've arrived. Sherlock has never left his side since, except for the four hour operation to remove the bullet. They anticipate the doctor to be unconscious for a while yet, much to the chagrin of Sherlock.

Luckily, John's hand isn't completely shattered, the doctors seem hopeful to a full recovery, a simple white cast now protects John's right hand, running from the middle of his forearm to the base of his fingers. His fingers poking out of the white hardened plastic.

The genius thinks they are all idiots. Even though they are hopeful for a full recovery, John is still in critical care, even the operation was touch and go. Sherlock is of course doubtful of their expertise, John is the best and only trustworthy doctor out there and it's only by default that he can't work on himself.

He hates hospitals, they both do. John, is a worse patient than Sherlock half the time. Sherlock smiles at the thought of the last time John was in the hospital. He drove the nurses up the wall, even more so than the younger Holmes could ever imagine.

Sherlock moves over to bed and returns to his faithful chair beside John's bed.

"John. You have to wake up now." Sherlock pleads, taking the uninjured hand in his and running smooth circles across the skin.

"I need you." He adds, putting his head on the bed and letting soft sobs escape his lips.

* * *

><p>"It's been three days." Sherlock says with deject. " Three bloody days, Mycroft and he hasn't woken up."<p>

Mycroft Holmes stands in the doorway of the doctor's room, leaning on his umbrella, his expression stoic but his eye flash concern for his brother. The younger Holmes is gaunt and thinner than usual. He hasn't left John in those three days, no matter who tries to persuade him. Both Greg and himself have attempted to make the genius leave, to no avail, they even called in Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock is stubborn and tenacious as always.

"You have to trust the doctors, Sherlock, they are doing the best they can, plus he's getting better, he's improving." Mycroft says softly. "Just give John some time."

"He knows I don't like waiting." Sherlock responses impatiently. He clutches the doctor's hand more firmly. "Go away Mycroft." Sherlock dismisses, refusing to address the concern and pity that radiate from Mycroft's form.

* * *

><p>"The park is supposed to be wonderful today. Do you remember that day when we walked to sit by the birds, and that old guy was feeding him? You said he was homeless based on his attire. I told you that man was rich and powerful, probably a position of high authority for the government. That has been the only time you haven't believed me." Sherlock is rambling. His face is fuzzy and itchy with stubble. His eyes are losing their bright, cloudy gleam.<p>

It's been six days since their arrival at the hospital. Six days of John being unconscious. It is not until the fifth day that he starts to talk to the comatose doctor. Sherlock is laying on the bed, his arm loosely across John's chest and his other hand twirling the blonde's hair. The doctor's casted hand lies against his stomach peacefully, almost naturally. Sherlock pulls John tighter against him as he tells the older man stories.

The nurses and doctor's never tell him to get off. In fact they rarely speak to the genius, especially after the fourth day, when he exploded in their faces out of frustration and anger and grief. Nobody talks to Sherlock now, except the beeps of John's machines, the only reassuring sound that the detective has, sans the doctor's voice.

"You were sore the next day when I showed you that picture of him on the telly." Sherlock laughs humorlessly at the memory. "Do you remember? You said you couldn't see why such a powerful and even famous man would be in the park in those ghastly dirty clothes feeding birds. I told you that's why people have disguises, so they aren't recognized."

Sherlock sighs, he doesn't know if he is talking for his sake or for John's. He believes that John will find his way through his voice so he keeps it up. He's been talking for about ten hours straight. Talking about old cases, talking about them, funny stories about Lestrade tripping in puddles. The detective talked about whatever came to his mind.

"Did you know about Mycroft and Lestrade?" Sherlock shares, "It's obvious now, I can't believe I didn't see it earlier."

The memories offer a distraction, a distraction that he has never been a witness too. Memories always bore him. Sherlock frowns at the sentiment and quiets for the first time in awhile. His thoughts begin to creep up on him. Guilt, panic, fear and grief invade his mind ruthlessly.

"John, you need to wake up now. I need you." Sherlock grabs John's uninjured hand and intertwines their fingers. He lays their combined hands on John's stomach, just above his naval. He weeps, again. "It's time for you to come back. I'll get the milk, I promise." Sherlock says, nuzzling his face into the blonde's hair.

"I love you so much. I just- I just need you awake." The genius says, crying softly into the limp body's neck.

That's when he feels it, a twitch of the hand. John's fingers curling up against Sherlock's.

"John?" Sherlock cries.


	3. Flashback

A/N: Here is part three.

Ugh, I love this plot, I'm going to make this a long series I hope.

Well aren't you guys lucky, this chapter is a long one. Almost 4,800 words

Peace&Love

* * *

><p>His mind is blissfully painless. He can hear the beep of the monitors in rhythm with his heart beat. That can't be right, why is he attached to machines? John tries to swim through his mind of fog to somewhere clear. Cotton fills his head and strips him of everything that could be used to help his recollection. He swims around in the haze for what seems like hours. Then he hears something else.<p>

A voice.

A smooth baritone floats into the haze, he knows instantly that it's Sherlock, calling and grasping at him. He hears the words but he can't put meaning to them. Almost as if they are muffled, definitely incoherent. He tries to shake his head clear, but nothing moves. It must be the morphine. _"Oh well_," he thinks painlessly.

_"No, this is not good. Sherlock is talking and you aren't listening or responding, he probably thinks the you are dead."_ John thinks to himself, suddenly horrified, he tries to move again, his limbs, he eyelids, nothing responds.

_"Sherlock can't think I'm dead, it will destroy him."_ John thinks, he struggles against the haze, willing the black and the cotton to go away, he starts to panic.

"_Calm down, Watson._" he thinks to himself, "_You won't get to Sherlock any faster if you panic. Concentrate."_ He conscience is being particularly eager. The doctor calms down and focuses on trying to get past the fog clouding his brain. After what seems like more hours, the blonde man finds Sherlock. The flawless low voice becomes more and more coherent. He hears the genius tell him that he needs him and that it is time for him to wake up. The doctor listens to the voice cutting through the dense cloud in this brain, reassuring him and pushing him forward.

He hears the voice state that he loves him. This is the final shove, John has not once failed to reciprocate an 'I love you'. He struggles against the cotton. He wills his body to move his fingers, his toes, anything.

His fingers twitch, at last. If the doctor could physically smile in triumph, he would. He feels a hand clasping his own. He can feel the smooth skin beneath his. The doctor consciously grips the fingers in his and squeezes tight, however, a weak twitch is all he manages, but it's enough.

"John?" He hears Sherlock's panic. He wants to respond, but he barely moves. He just continues twitching his fingers in more lengthy intervals.

"John. Oh my god John." The doctor feels the pleasant pressure around him tighten. A hug. A warm hug.

"John, can you open your eyes?" The voice commands, he wants to oblige, he moves all his will power to opening his eyes. It takes work but finally his eyes slide open slowly. White light burns, he quickly shuts his eyelids again, a slight groan escaping his lips.

He hears shuffling and the warmth beside him is gone, John can't help but feel disappointment, the sudden coldness his body feels.

"John, the lights are off, open your eyes again, please." Sherlock's voice is low and pleading. John cautiously opens his eyes again, fortunately to a darker room.

"John." Four letters that convey so much longing, warmth, relief, grief, sadness, concern, worry and even a little happiness. John moves his eyes around until they fall upon the most beautiful person in the world.

"I..love..'u." John raspy voice escapes his lips without thinking. He knows he has to reciprocate, that's his rule.

Soft lips crush against his own, barely there, almost ghosting across his own. He realises Sherlock is afraid of hurting him. John leans is head up slightly and pushes his own lips closer, completing the kiss.

"John...I...thought...that I had...almost lost you.." Sherlock says, breaking the kiss and returning to his side of the bed, tears are spilling down his cheeks.

"It's okay. I'm here." John mutters sleepily, the simple act of waking up completely exhausting the older man. His eyes close, fatigue creeps through him. A second later he snaps them open in earnest, for a second, he irrationally fears that Sherlock isn't going to be there when he opens his eyes again.

"It's okay John, sleep. I'll be here when you wake up." John nods numbly, before he can rationalise the fear and panic he feels, he lets himself be comforted by the man beside him.

"It's okay, I'm here." John repeats dosing off.

"I know. I love you, you silly doctor." Sherlock says hugging the improving doctor tightly.

* * *

><p>The next time John wakes, nothing is different. His steady heartbeat is echoing through the room with rhythmic beeps. The room is dim, but silhouettes and shadows dance around the space, teasing his vision, however, the doctor chooses to ignore the taunts of creepy shadows. He notices the warmth beside him. He can't help but smile. He moves his head slowly, until he can see the body next to him. Brown curls tickle his cheek in the new position. John gazes at the man next to him. Sherlock has his body curled against his own, the detective's knees bent and putting a pleasant pressure against his thigh. He grins again at the sleeping man next to him. He wonders how long he has been here and when the last time Sherlock slept, it looks like this is the first proper time in a long time, going by the dark purple bruises under his eyes.<p>

His mind is much clearer this time around, however, his body is tired and he feels the fatigue setting in. He fights against the exhaustion for the time being and tries to shift his restless body, mostly to catalog the pain and damage. He moves slowly and purposefully, as to not wake the sleeping detective next to him. He notices his casted hand is laying on his stomach, probably not completely shattered, along with his uninjured hand intertwined with Sherlock's fingers. He gives them a gentle squeeze to reassure himself that the detective is really there. His shoulder throbs dully, he remembers the gunshot, he can feel the bandages wrapped tightly around his torso from the cuts, a decent amount of stitches no doubt, not to mention the bandages around his wrists. He doesn't remember pulling that hard at the ropes but he rationalizes that the pain was high on his list of priorities at that moment.

The door creaks slightly open and John stops moving and glares threateningly at the nurse walking in. He dares her to wake Sherlock with a menacing glare. The nurse nods curtly and goes about her business. She quietly checks his vitals and drips. John watches her carefully, adding the bags of saline and various medicines into his catalog of his medical stay at the hospital. As the nurse finishes up, she looks over at John and gives a welcoming smile, and puts her thumbs up for reassurance. John smiles warmly and nods his head, with that the nurse quietly backs out of the room and shuts the door.

John lies there for a couple minutes, just breathing with the genius beside him. He lets his mind wonder to the events that put him in the hospital. The memories are fuzzy at best. John remembers the intruders, but their faces seem to be blurry. He recalls being shot in the left shoulder, John's shoulder shudders at the memory, He remembers them breaking his hand. At this John looks down at the hand in the cast and shivers again. He tries to focus on what else happen. He remembers Sherlock being restrained, he had to protect the detective at all cost. He remembers the older man cutting him deeply, there was blood everywhere. He can't remember what they wanted or why they were there. Was Sherlock hurt? John looks over to the genius and sees no marks on his face. What else happened?

John tries to shift his body, almost trying to physically shift the confusing memories away. He attempts to move onto his side more, a sudden, shooting pain spreads violently up and down his back, shoulder, and arm. The doctor cries out in the discomfort, stopping himself mid-shift. He can't continuing moving but he can't lay back down. The pain is paralyzing him in an uncomfortable position. His shoulder and back throb with the orientation, he squeezes his eyes shut and tenses against it.

"John?" The sleepy, but panicked baritone interrupts his thoughts. He keeps his eyes shut and his lips in a thin line. If he opens his mouth, it will be a shriek of pain, and John Watson does not shriek.

"John, are you hurt?" Sherlock asks, John can feel the detective shift parallel to him. John lets out a whimper, the only sound he can manage. A few seconds of silence follow and John tries to breath through the pain, loudly.

"John, are you stuck?" John nods fast, afraid the movement of his head will increase the pain. "Okay, let me help." Warm hands apply a bit of pressure to John's upper arm. In one quick motion, Sherlock gently pushes the doctor back down onto the bed. John cries out from the pain, but finds instant relief at the horizontal position.

"Sorry, sorry, I should have warned you about the pain." John feels the beads of sweat drop down his forehead from the exertion, but his body relaxes and the shooting pains stop. A very minute throbbing states, but it's tolerable.

"No, no it's fine." John breaths. "I should have known better." John says as he opens his eyes and smiles at the brown curly haired man. Sherlock is on his knees hovering over the older man, he looks back at the doctor, relief and worry evident in his eyes. His breathing calms down as he continues to stare into the icy blue eyes.

"Hi." John breaths, smiling.

"Hello." Sherlock's responding smile beams at him. "Are you alright?" Sherlock asks him after a long silence.

"I am now." John replies grinning. Sherlock lowers his face to John's and places a chaste kiss onto the older man's lips and then moves to lay back down at John's side, curling back up against him. Their hands find each other and lay gently on John's stomach, avoiding the cuts beneath.

"Sherlock, you are hurt. What happened? Did they hurt you?" John says after a few more minutes, after he notices the bandages wrapped around the younger man's wrists, his breathing on the verge of panic. Sherlock squeezes the doctor's hand quickly and soothingly.

"No, it's okay, they didn't hurt me. It's nothing, just from the ropes. I rubbed my wrist raw, apparently." Sherlock says nuzzling his face into John's neck, while the older man calms his breathing.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" John asks quietly.

"No..yes, just on my side, but it was a few stitches, a piece of wood scraped me." Sherlock says looking John in the eyes.

"A piece of wood?" John questions incredulously. "How?"

"It's how I got out of the ropes. I broke the chair." Sherlock shrugs. John thinks about this for a moment and tries to imagine how the genius got out of the chair.

"Are you okay?" John ask eventually, after giving up picturing a way that the genius got out of the chair.

"If I recall, you are the one in the hospital who has been in a coma for six days." Sherlock chides. Typical John Watson, to worry about the genius while he is the one clearly incapacitated.

"It has been six days." John says disbelieving. No wonder he is stiff. "How did you not go out of your mind with boredom." The doctor chuckles, trying to bring some light into the situation, however, he feels Sherlock tense beside him at the comment. John stills, not sure what is wrong.

"Sherlock, I-" John starts, guilt creeping into his face.

"I wasn't bored...I thought you were going...I thought I was going to lose you...I didn't know how to handle it...I need you..I don't know what I would do if you didn't wake up." Sherlock chokes out, tears starting to well up.

"I'm sorry, I know it must have been hard. I'm here now. I'm not going to leave you." John says squeezing Sherlock's fingers eagerly.

"Promise?" Sherlock squeaks, his voice small and vulnerable. John's heart breaks at the sound.

"I promise, I'm sorry I worried you." John adds. The adrenaline from the pain has long since faded and now sleep is pushing at his brain again.

"I love you." Sherlock says placing small kisses in the crook of John's neck.

"I love you too." John says through a sleepy haze. "Thank you for staying with me." John adds, feeling warm and comfortable.

"Always, John Watson, Always." John feel asleep to kisses on his neck and his lover by his side.

* * *

><p><strong>A day later<strong>

John wakes from a dreamless sleep, thanks to the pain medication.

The day had been full of tests and MRIs and blood work. Now that he is awake from his coma, the nurses and doctors want to keep him that way. For the most part, John doesn't complain, he lets them do their job and tries to be helpful. It's Sherlock who's becoming more and more impatient, in fact, ever since John woke up and now that the genius knows he is fine, John can see the boredom start to itch his skin. Thankfully, Lestrade stopped by during the day to drop off a lot of cold case files, enough to last the next couple of days (hopefully). This keeps Sherlock mind occupied while John is away doing tests.

Eventually, John is wheeled back into his room after another test. He is exhausted and lightly dozing. The doctor opens his eyes for a fraction of second and sees Sherlock in the chair beside the bed, pouring himself over a case file. Purple bruises still litter the skin under his eyes, much to the worry of John. John starts to open his mouth to demand that Sherlock sleeps.

"John, you are tired, just sleep." Sherlock says softly, not looking up from the file in his hand.

"What about you, you must be tired?" John replies with a yawn, his eyelids already closing.

"I'm just going over this case." Sherlock adds. For a few silent minutes he doesn't get a response, he looks up and sees the doctor's eyes closed. Sherlock's gaze lingers and a sad smile forms at the sleeping man in front of him. It will take a while, but things are going to be okay, he has to keep telling himself that.

That was hours ago, now John is looking at the sleeping form of the genius, evidently passed out in the chair next to his bed. The light snores of said detective reach John's ears as confirmation. He shakes his head and smiles a little at the sight. Only Sherlock Holmes would pass out from exhaustion in the most uncomfortable chair in the hospital.

He looks at the younger man and sighs quietly to himself in relief. It's comforting to know that Sherlock is still there, next to him every time he wakes up. Some irrational part of John thinks that one of these times he will wake up in the hospital alone because Sherlock decides he doesn't want to be with him, it was his fault that he rubbed his wrist so raw that he skin peeled away. If he noticed how wrong the quietness of the flat, they wouldn't be here, in this situation. John shakes his head in his grief. He remembers the older man digging his fingers into his waist. He feels the guilt, the grief, the violation.

John squeezes his eyes tight against the memories. He can still feel the older military man's lips against his own. The hard, chapped lips pushing against him, the man's fingers digging painfully into his waist, pinning him there. The man wanted the kiss to be gentle, he tried to make it tender and loving. The thought repulses John. The doctor brings his casted hand up to his face. The exposed fingers brush idly at his lips, trying to wipe away the feeling of violation. He broken hand shoots dull, yet tolerable, pain signals through his arm at the movement. The doctor ignores the alarm of pain and continues brushing his lips harshly, this time with more force.

John's eyes remain shut, he feels the chap lips on his, the doctor can feel the panic coming. He can feel his breathing start to grow shallow at the unwanted memories.

_"Get a hold of yourself Watson. It was just a kiss."_ John thinks to himself trying to dispel the visions of the man's face and lips crashing into his own. A flash of Sherlock's tear stained face rushes over his eyes. The detective face breaks John's heart. He remembers feeling the need to protect the genius, to do whatever it takes. He remembers how emotional those stormy gray eyes were when he looked at him, the younger man tied to that chair. He takes deep breaths against the flashbacks.

_"Sebastian always said you'd be a fighter."_ The words leave the chapped lips. He can hear the man taunting him, he sees the lips in front of him. He is having trouble controlling his breathing now, panic is surfacing and making his body tremble. His fingers brush violently at his lips, they are starting to become sore from the attention.

_"You have beautiful eyes_" The old military intruder says, his lips smack in his visions. He feels the lips against his again, His body is shaking violently now, the doctor is in a full blown panic, his heart beat picks up and his breathing is labored. He tries to calm down and push the thoughts away, he tries to mentally push the fingers at his waist away. The unwanted touches are invading his brain, touches on his waist, his face, are overwhelming.

So when he feels a hand on his cast and another hand cupping his chin, John couldn't help but let out a terrified scream.

* * *

><p>The erratic beeping of the machine tears Sherlock out of his slumber immediately. His eyes bolt open against the distressing sounds of the panicked machines. The detective quickly finds John's body, it is tense and shaking roughly. The detective leaps out of his chair and before he can tell his body where to go, he is standing over John. He knows instinctively that John is having a flashback. The fingers on the doctor's broken hand are swiping abusively across the plush lips. He can see the lips are becoming a bit swollen at the contact.<p>

_"Ah, he is remembering that bastard** kissing** him."_ Sherlock thinks bitterly, anger, helplessness and guilt over power him in a split second. He couldn't help John. He just sat there and watched that man violate him. It is his fault that John is panicking right now. It is his fault that John is hurt.

John's gasping breaths shake Sherlock from his self-pitying thoughts (there was time for that later). For once, uncertainty paralyses the detective. John's breathing is becoming even more shallow and his entire form is shaking violently in hysteria. Sherlock subconsciously reaches towards his lover, his hands ghosting hesitantly over his convulsing form.

"John?" Sherlock calls softly, trying to rouse the man from his terrifying flashback. The doctor's panic, however, makes him temporarily deaf to reality and John starts to rub his lips even more roughly, almost as if he is trying to remove the memories by swiping at his lips.

The sight makes Sherlock's heart sting with pain. "John?" He says as he cups John's chin and places a hand on his cast, trying to prevent any more damage to his perfect lips.

John shudders even more violently under the new touch and suddenly, a earth shattering scream erupts throughout the room.

* * *

><p>John opens his eyes rapidly at the touch and scream. His left fist goes flying, the pain in his knuckles tell him that his hand connected with flesh. He hears the grunt and declaration of pain through his panicked mind. Without thinking, John jumps out of his bed, pain erupts all over his body but he ignores it, his shoulder, his torso, even his arm hurts from where the IV is no longer attached. Adrenaline helps cloud the pain and getting away from his attacker takes priority anyway.<p>

He moves quickly, keeping his back temporarily to his attacker, he quickly scans the exits. He starts to move towards the door.

"John?" A deep baritone interrupts his thoughts. His stance automatically relaxes at the voice. The ex-soldier slowly turns his body towards the voice. The detective stands before him, just on the other side of the bed. One hand lays limply at his side and his other hand is clutching at his face, blood seeping through his fingers and dripping onto his shirt. Confusion and concern flash through Sherlock's eyes with a mix of hurt.

John's panic immediately leaves him. Sherlock's head is tilted back, pinching the bridge of his nose his eyes never leave John's face. Redness flows freely down the genius's face. John's eyes widened in shock.

"John?" Sherlock calls softly, trying to not be threatening, his nose throbs painfully, but he ignores it, he makes no sudden movements as he stares across the room at his broken lover. "John, are you okay?"

"Oh shite, Oh shite. Sherlock." John blurts out, wringing his hands together awkwardly, hurrying over to his injured boyfriend. He crosses the room in seconds, painfully walking around the bed and naturally bringing his hands up to help stop the blood flow. "Oh shite, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." John apologises, tears welling up in his eyes, shame and guilt not bothering to hide on his face. He continues to mumble apologies as the blood flow diminishes rather quickly.

"John it's okay." Sherlock soothes, tipping his head up so John can see the damage.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know. Oh my god. I'm sorry. I thought it was...I didn't know it was you." The doctor mutters, casting his eyes downward and dropping his hands to his side forlornly, his face clearly in distress.

"It's okay. John. I know. It's not your fault." Sherlock says, blood drying slowly on his face. He grabs the doctor's hands in his own and give them a squeeze. "It's okay."

Tears are falling down John's cheeks shamelessly. He continues to mutter apologies, not hearing a word the detective is saying. Sherlock slouches down in search for eye contact.

"John. Look at me." Sherlock demands tenderly. After a few seconds, John looks shamefully into the younger man's eyes. "I'm alright." Sherlock states clearly, wrapping his arms around the man's body, hugging him loosely.

As soon as the hug is completed, John breaks, deep sobs escape his lips, staining Sherlock's shirt. The doctor wraps his own arms around the younger man's waist, sputtering apologies and sobs.

"I'm sorry, I thought it was him. I thought he was back. I didn't know it was you. I just saw him, on top of me...s-snogging me. I just couldn't stop him. I'm sorry. I'm soo sorry. I couldn't protect you, you hurt your wrists. I couldn't protect you. I'm sorry." John rambles quickly, his voice weak and vulnerable.

Sherlock's heart has never felt this much pain before. Tears start to fall down the genius's face at the sight. "Shh...John. It's okay. You did. You saved me. It was I who didn't protect you. It's my fault, If it wasn't for me, none of this would have happened, if you had never met me, Moriarty would have never known you. It's all my fault."

John squeezes his arms around Sherlock tighter as his sobs continue. "No. I don't b-blame y-you. I'm sorry. It's not your fault." He states.

"I would understand if you didn't want to be around me anymore." Sherlock states, however, his tightening limbs around the older doctor contradicts his statement, he is afraid he will leave.

"No. I-I'm not g-going a-anywhere." John sobs into Sherlock's shirts.

"Are you sure? God I love you so much." Sherlock says nuzzling his head into John's blonde hair. John lifts his head up and instantly crushes his lips against the taller mans. The kiss is sloppy and perfect, it conveys the desperation and concern. John pushes his tongue against Sherlock's teeth in a fight for dominance. The detective lets him and opens his mouth. John tastes coffee and a taste that is the taller man's own. They kiss and communicate their relief at their happy luck to still be living.

It is John who pulls away first and gasp for breath. He casted hand grabs a hold of his lover's shirt and he breaths in their embrace.

"I could never be away from you. I love you." John replies, his breathing settling and his sobs subsiding. They stay together, gripping each other like there is no tomorrow.

Suddenly, John lets out a cry of pain. The adrenaline of the flashbacks and the heat of the kiss leaving him and his pain coming to the front of his brain.

"Sorry, sorry." Sherlock says loosen his grip on his boyfriend. John sways dangerously.

"No, it's just I moved too fast when I jumped out of the bed." John says.

The door abruptly opens and two nurses come rushing in.

"What on earth are you two doing?" One of the nurses asks curtly. "You shouldn't be out of bed."

"Well that's reassuring, he disconnected from the machines almost twelve minutes and twenty five seconds ago and now you are here." Sherlock mutters snidely. "Glad it wasn't an emergency or anything."

John sheepishly grins at the comment.

"Get back in bed. Now." The other nurse commands. John walks painfully over to the bed and with the help of Sherlock slides under the covers. The nurses check his vitals and reconnect his IV and whatever else came off when he jumped out of bed.

Meanwhile, Sherlock disappears into the bathroom. He comes out, he face now has no sign of blood or a domestic. Once the nurses leave, Sherlock jumps lightly into bed with John, snuggling up close to him.

"I am really sorry. I thought you were him coming back to hurt us." John says after a couple minutes of silence, fatigue once again overwhelming him.

"It's not your fault, I should have known. Besides, you don't have to worry about them." Sherlock says running his hand through John's hair absentmindedly. "I'm sure Mycroft has those bastards in a ditch somewhere by now."

The thought sent a sleepy chuckle through John, the pain and panic long gone, his eyelids droop. He brings a hand to Sherlock's chest, feeling his heart beat. He slows his breathing and heart to match the man beside him.

"It's okay John. You're safe. I'm safe. I've got you. Sleep."

With that John drifted to sleep with his boyfriend's arms comforting his mind into a dreamless sleep.


	4. Success & Promises

A/N: Hello all, OH MY GOSH, thank you for all your reviews.

This is a little shorter compared to my last chapter but here you go. Also, I'm starting to feel that Sherlock may be a little out of character but hey, this is how I want him for the story. Also reviews would be lovely.

* * *

><p>The next few days pass in a long blur, instead of being measured in hours, they were measured in successes. The first success happens on the third day after John woke from the coma. Food is the very first obstacle in John's way. He couldn't eat a meal without retching everything and then some. Water is the only thing successfully staying down. The doctors are puzzled to the cause of lack of appetite and nausea. John figures it's a combination of PTSD and being weaned off of the IV. So on the third day, John bravely eats the soup delivered to him, apprehensive of the inevitable retching. After the first hour passes and the food stays put, John and Sherlock smile at each other and relish in the first success of recovery, much to the relief of the doctors and Sherlock. The stinging of Sherlock's heart decreases every time John accomplishes an obstacle. The detective has become hopeful.<p>

The second success is John's ability to walk without assistance. He is able to take extended walks throughout the corridor without someone helping him. Of course, Sherlock is always there, keeping him company as he tries to dislodge the atrophy of his comatose legs. After the third walk in two days, Sherlock heart is more a dulling throb, his optimism glowing off him, even acting as a contagion because John smiles a lot more too.

The third success happens the sixth day after the doctor awoke from his coma. On the morning of the sixth day, Sherlock and John woke up in each others arms, just like they have been for the past six days.

"How did you sleep?" Sherlock asks sleepily, fully aware that this was the first night that John finally slept peacefully next to him, nightmares and flashbacks out of mind, even though the occasional panic attack is still prevalent, however, the intervals between those are growing longer and longer apart. The night before, Sherlock had an idea to help John sleep. He had convinced Mycroft to bring his violin in (because he refuses to leave the hospital when John is still there, even though multiple people, including John, have tried to make him leave), the soft music immediately calmed the older man into a peaceful sleep. Sherlock was beyond relief.

"Unconsciously," The doctor says with a smirk, ripping Sherlock from his thoughts with a huff.

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, John." Sherlock scowls lightly, looking into John's eyes.

"Fine, I had no nightmares." John says stating the obvious. "Although, it would have been a lot better if every hour I wasn't jostled awake by a nurse hell bent on making my nights miserable." John complains breathy. Sherlock laughs at John's sulky and ironic attitude towards the hospital staff. He leans forward and plants a kiss onto John's lips, trying to wipe the pout off of them. So the third success is a somewhat peaceful sleep, thanks to the violin and the warm of each others arms.

* * *

><p>"It's been two weeks since I've been in the hospital. That's enough, I'm done. I want to leave now." Sherlock hears John's voice echo angrily throughout the room. The detective hears the bed shift, as it's occupant moves irritably. Sherlock stays in the en suite bathroom, trying to dry off his damp hair with one of the hospitals rough towels.<p>

Today, the eighth day, marks another success, the first time the doctor is able to shower on his own. Despite the term, unaccompanied shower, John somehow inferred it to mean something completely different. Apparently the ability to shower on one's own meant a chance to plead with Sherlock (rather adorably, if the detective was going to admit it) until he is tricked into the shower fully clothed for very deep and frankly, dirty kisses. It took all of the detective's power to not take advantage of the older man, his very naked, very wet, boyfriend whom he hasn't touched in over two weeks. After a very heated and unexpected snogging session, Sherlock finally found the power to stop before someone got hurt, especially John, who isn't fully recovered yet. He helps him finish washing himself and they finally leave the shower. Once out of the shower, John had sniggered shamelessly. "You look like a wet rat." He had said as Sherlock scowled and grabbed a towel and began to dry himself. "Don't worry, you are a very adorable wet rat." John had said as he finished drying and moved back to the hospital bed, giggling his way there.

Ten minutes later and Sherlock finally gets his hair somewhat dry and changes into fresh clothes. He throws the wet towel on the ground next to John's and moves towards the agitated huffing noises coming from his lover.

"John, I know how much-" Sherlock stops mid sentence as he casts his eyes upon the older man. John sits on the bed, his arms gingerly across his chest, his gun shot wound is still a bit sore. Sherlock lets out a little chuckle when he finally looks up and see John's face. A childish glower is settled on his face, forming his lips into a very stubborn thin line. Sherlock doesn't ever recall seeing this look on his face before.

"You are so adorable." Sherlock blurts out, wondering if he should feel regret at his blatant admittance, at John's obvious discomfort. He moves over to the bed and places ghosting kisses all over John's expression.

"Am not," John states defiantly. "I'm just done with this place. I'm fine, I can recover just as easily at home." John says, attempting to make a point but failing due to the distracting kisses. John holds his posture, he refuses to give in to the kisses falling lightly all over his face. He is sick of this room, he's sick of the walls, of the windows, of the staff, the staff always interrupting his privacy. He knows he's being a hypocrite, but doctors are the worse patients right, he holds that stereotype with righteous conviction. Mostly, he misses the privacy. John just wants to sleep, with his boyfriend in his arms without someone nagging at him, checking his vitals every hour. He longs for privacy. He wants Sherlock all to himself in their bed. John sighs.

Sherlock stops his kisses at John's sigh. He looks into the doctor's eyes, the blue eyes of the doctor swirling with exasperation and longing. "Okay." Sherlock says moving away from John and standing up straight.

"Okay?" John asks suspiciously. "What do you mean okay?"

"I mean okay. We'll go home." Sherlock says reaching out for John's hand and squeezing his exposed fingers. John stares at Sherlock incredulously, since when did the detective do anything anyone ever asks of him. He scoffs when no memory of such a situation presenting itself.

"Now really. I do what people ask all the time." Sherlock says with a frown. John scoffs again at the detective's pouting lips. The younger man crosses his arms tightly around his chest in defiance, plopping himself into the chair beside John's bed. He cast his eyes downward.

"Oh come now, don't be like that. Pouting doesn't suit you." John states, failing to mention that Sherlock's pouting looks incredibly adorable and a tiny bit sexy.

"Don't be ridiculous, you love it when I pout." Sherlock states staying up bluntly, moving towards the door. Confusion drips down John's face. "_I must have hurt his feelings."_ He muses to himself. He opens his mouth to apologize. Before words come out, the genius waves a hand up dismissively.

"John, I'm fine, you should, however, get ready." Sherlock states turning the door handle.

"Get ready?" John asks failing to deduce where the conversation is going.

"Don't be pedestrian, John, I know the hospital lowers IQ significantly but come on. Get ready because I'm going to go sign the discharge papers." Sherlock huffs, looking over to John. A bright, beaming smile erupts on the older man's face. In a flash, John is out of bed and getting ready to go. With a chuckle, Sherlock leaves the room into a war zone to get John home.

* * *

><p>In the taxi, finally en route to Baker Street, John curls himself against Sherlock, his head resting on his shoulder, exhaustion from the excitement of returning home pulling his eyelids closed. As John falls asleep, Sherlock feels the familiar vibration of his phone in his pocket.<p>

_You left the hospital._  
><em>MH<em>

Ah, Mycroft, always to the point

_Yes_  
><em>SH<em>

_That was unwise. How is the Doctor?_  
><em>MH<em>

_Better now that we are going home. Is there a particular reason that you are bothering me, dear brother?_  
><em>SH<em>

_Lt. Raymond Montague_  
><em>Sgt. Nathaniel Leonard <em>  
><em>MH<em>

_Are those names supposed to ring my proverbial bell. Stop being annoying._  
><em>SH<em>

_I just thought you should know who attacked the doctor, and in turn you_  
><em>MH<em>

_Ah. Well I trust you've taken care of them._  
><em>SH<em>

_That's the problem. Their location is...cryptic. They have eluded my best men._  
><em>MH <em>

_That's because your best men are idiots._  
><em>It's been two weeks Mycroft, they should be in a ditch by now.<em>  
><em>SH<em>

_How do we know they aren't?_  
><em>MH<em>

_Don't be dull, Mycroft. Find them._  
><em>SH<em>

_I'm trying, but they aren't on the grid. Moriarty is good at being covert_  
><em>MH<em>

Sherlock looks down at the sleeping man on his shoulder. He will do everything to protect John. If those bastards aren't dead yet, he will have to find them himself.

_Well, that's what he does best_  
><em>SH<em>

_Don't tell John_

_SH  
><em>

Sherlock deposits his phone back into his pocket with a sigh and relishes in the quiet of the taxi ride.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, John and Sherlock are sitting on the couch, the doctor is holding a cup of tea, leaning lightly on the man next to him. The detective, pretending to go over the cold case in his hand, but his thoughts continue to roam to the military intruders still at large. He is two-seconds from running out of the flat and finding them and beating their skulls in. Two words are keeping his anger and feet in check.<p>

John Watson.

Sherlock is not going to leave the doctor's side, especially if Moriarty's men are still out there. Occasionally, Sherlock glances over at his lover, making sure he is still there. Twenty minutes of comfortable silence pass, John has long since finished his cup of tea but stills holds the mug in his hand for comfort.

Suddenly, the doctor shifts and tenses against the younger man. Sherlock puts his file down and turns to find John looking right at him. John places his cup on the coffee table in front of him and cups Sherlock's face with both of his hands. The rough plastic of his cast scrapes against the detective's cheek, but Sherlock ignores it and instead looks into the brown eyes in front of him curiously.

"Thank you." John speaks suddenly, his voice soft and quiet but firm. The doctor wants to go into specifics, he wants to thank him for specifically saving his life, for staying with him in the hospital, despite his underlying boredom. He mostly wants to thank him for loving him, for being there. For not finding him ugly because of the red scars that are new to his body.  
>"Than-" John starts uncomfortably, really not sure how to express his thoughts in words.<p>

"You're very welcome." Sherlock says, placing around John's waist, pulling him into a hug. He nuzzles his chin into the doctor's neck. "Your welcome for all of it."

John sighs, not an unhappy sigh, but a 'how do you do that' sigh. Sherlock chuckles and hugs him tighter. After a few minutes John moves out of the embrace and flips his body around, his back now leaning against Sherlock's chest. He head resting on the genius's shoulder. Sherlock's arms wrap protectively around the blonde's chest, rubbing circles over his heart, absentmindedly.

"You don't think they are going to come back do you." John asks after a few minutes, his shoulders abruptly tense against Sherlock's embrace.

Sherlock instinctively hugged John tighter. "They will never touch you again." He adds adamantly.

"I-..w-when he had that gun on you-i just just couldn't think. I couldn't lose you. I won't lose you." John says. His voice breaking at the sudden admittance of his vulnerability.

"Sh. I'm here, you will never lose me. They will not bother us again, understand?" Sherlock conveys.

"Yes, like you said, Mycroft probably has them in a ditch somewhere." John says. It takes everything in the detective's power to no visibly tense at John's assumption, however, his body betrays him. For a split, uncontrollable second, his body tenses, enough for John to notice.

"They are dead, aren't they?" John asks weakly, breaking away from Sherlock and turning to face him. Sherlock guiltily doesn't meet the blue eyes and moves to the end of the settee. His shame, trying to hid from John, creating a barrier between them.

"Sherlock. You were going to tell me they were still around weren't you?" John says, irritation becoming evident in his voice.

Don't worry, I'm going to find them, and then we will rid of them." Sherlock utters with strong conviction, he looks up into John's eyes. Wetness is threatening to pour out of them. The sudden change in emotion startles Sherlock into silence.

"No. No. Sherlock." John pleads, scooting closer to the detective. His shoulder is starting to become stiff at the exertion of the day's events. He ignores the throb and moves forward, his entire body protesting in pain. He gasps and stops moving. His eyes shine bright with tears of pain and concern. Sherlock straightens up and moves closer to the doctor.  
>"Hey, it's okay. John. John?" Sherlock calls putting a grip on John's shoulder and easing him back down against the back of the couch. Sherlock faces the blonde and notices the tears running down his face.<p>

"What's hurts?" Sherlock asks grabbing John's uninjured hand.

John shakes his head in earnest. His tears turning into sobs. The exhaustion from today, plus the bottled up emotions from the past two weeks stifle the doctor into an emotion filled silence. He can feel his breathing becoming erratic. He hates this, he doesn't like how weepy he has become since the ordeal. He pictures Sherlock finding the men. He can see the genius in a pool of his own blood, while Moriarty dances into view. He panics at his imagination. "No. No. Sherlock, you can't, I can't lose you. What if they- What if they...kill you?" John cries, gripping Sherlock's shirt and pulling the younger man towards him. "I can't lose you. Moriarty can't win. I can't let him get to you." John is sobbing into Sherlock's shirt now.

"It's okay. I won't. I'm not going anywhere." Sherlock says hugging the man closer, rubbing soothing circles on the older man's back. He can't stand the sight of the broken man in front of him. The emotions pull at his heart unfamiliarity.

"You have to promise. You won't hunt them down. Just leave it." John pleads, his sobs hiccuping.

"I promise." Sherlock says, his own tears silently falling down his face at the turmoil of John.

"Good. I love you too much, I just can't-" John says, picturing Moriarty laughing over the dead corpse of the genius, causing a whole new wave of uncontrollable sobs.

"Shhh.. It's okay. I promise. I'm here we are safe." Sherlock soothes, rocking them both back and forth.

Unfortunately, for Sherlock this is the hardest promise he is going to have to keep.

* * *

><p>Sometime later, after John insists that Sherlock, check and recheck that the house is locked up tight, all bolts in their place, Sherlock finally persuades John to go to their bed.<p>

"Please, will you stay with me." John says sheepishly, once he is settle comfortably in his bed.

"Always." Sherlock replies slipping in the covers, snuggling next to the warm body.


	5. Back To Normal

Oh my, I just love all of the reviews. Just so we are clear, we are ignoring Reichenbach for right now. Oh by the way, this one might have a few mistakes. Sorry it's like four in the morning.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p><em>Text Message To Sherlock Holmes<em>

_Sargent Nathanial Leonard, 30's - Dishonorably discharged from Iraq in 2007, for beating his Commanding Officer to death over classified argument. _

_Lt. Raymond 'Ray' Montague, late 40's - Dishonorably discharged from Iraq in 2006 for sexual accusations against multiple men in the unit._

_In 2005, both men served under Sebastian Moran in a classified unit before being disbanded._

_MH_

* * *

><p>One month later from the date of hospital release.<p>

"We are out of milk again." John exclaims, slamming the door to the refrigerator.

A disinterested grunt comes from the settee, the only response the doctor gets. Sherlock is in the middle of a case, much to the relief of John who basically withheld sex if Sherlock didn't find something to distract his time with and get him out of the flat. This is only his second case since John left the hospital. He spends most of his time around John, a second shadow to the doctor.

A lot of things have changed since John was released from the hospital, but things are finally getting back to normal. Eventually, John wanted to get back to hint of normalcy and went back to the surgery, which was a week of hell for the detective. During that week, he got his first case since the incident and it was a case that John couldn't help with do to his injuries. Not to mention, Sherlock refuses to let the older man out of his sight. That first week that John was back at work, Sherlock would follow him into the GP and set up a mini command center in the middle of the waiting room. It was kind of endearing for John to know how much the genius cared but when the second week came around and Sherlock made inclination that he would be altering his command center at the GP, it went from endearing to annoying and distracting.

John finally laid down some ground rules, he convinced Sherlock to leave him be during his shifts at the surgery, which are now shorter than what he usually works, partly because he is still recovering and the other part because if his shifts get to long, Sherlock disguises himself and makes appointments for fake people just so he can watch other John. Twice, John caught Sherlock in the waiting disguised as someone else, and when he confronted the detective about it, he simply stated all of the other times he went unnoticed, a number way to high and completely unfathomable for the doctor. John caved in half way through the second week and took shorter shifts.

In addition to shorter shifts, the detective insists upon 'picking' John up after his shifts are over. John snorts at the term 'picking up'. It is a nice way of describing a dramatic entry by one consulting detective who burst into the surgery the minute John's shift is over and man handles the doctor into his coat, and gently pulls him out of the building, dragging him to Scotland Yard or various locations around London. In one weird occasion, Sherlock 'picked up' John and the detective rushed them to Regents Park to smell the roses, for an 'experiment'.

Eventually, Sherlock got distracted after two weeks, and the 'picking ups' dwindled, much to the relief of John and in turn his reputation to the staff at the GP. Plus, this gave him an opportunity to have a little time for himself. He didn't get a lot of time to think alone without being analyzed by the tornado of dramatics known as Sherlock Holmes.

"Did you hear me, we are out of milk." John states again, pulling himself from his thoughts. He stands in front of the sprawled body of Sherlock, who is characteristically staring into the distance. The detective makes no moves of recognition.

"Right. You could have at least texted me on the way home, I would've stopped, instead of going back out into the rain for milk." John huffs with annoyance and grabs his wallet and phone and heads out the door. He makes his way down the seventeen steps and into the entry hall. He grabs his coat in aggravation and wraps it tightly around him. His casted hand slips awkwardly into the sleeves and his fingers slide slightly around the wet buttons. The coat hasn't gotten a chance to dry in the half hour that he has been home.

Normally, John would have not bothered trudging out into the cold, rainy London weather for milk, but he really wants tea, call it an obsession. When he decides he wants tea, he will get his tea. Plus, a night of a certain sulking detective without tea is completely unendurable without the comfort of tea.

John must have been making angry grunts louder than he thought because he hears clattering coming from Mrs. Hudson's flat as she opens her door and pokes her head out.

"Where are you off to in this weather John?" Mrs. Hudson asks sweetly, his annoyance diminishes a bit at her genuine smile.

"We are out of milk again, No worries, it won't take to long, Mrs. Hudson." John smiles back finishing the buttons on his coat.

"Okay, make sure you keep warm, dear." Mrs. Hudson states disappearing back into her flat.

He smiles again at the sweet lady and grabs for his scarf. His hands feels emptiness. He looks and realises his scarf isn't there. He remembers leaving it on the armchair in the flat. He contemplates climbing the steps again. He dismisses that idea and looks longing at Sherlock's scarf.

"He won't mind." John thinks to himself, wrapping the warm wool around his neck. Sherlock's scent envelops him and John stands there for a moment just breathing in the scent. After an unhealthy and rather creepy amount of time, John decides he should actually go and get the milk. The doctor throws open the door, a little dramatically, and braves the raining London on his quest for milk.

Forty five minutes later he exits the Tesco in exasperation. He arrived at the shop rather quickly given that it usually is a ten minute walk, he jogged because of the rain. Although, no one would have guessed that everyone and their mother were out shopping today. The line was endlessly long and of course the chip and pin machine battled, which he won. He finally emerges from the hellishly busy shop with his milk and some sweets to surprise Sherlock with, perhaps to get him out of his sulk. On the bright side, the rain has long since stopped while he was in the shop. However, a bitter wind follows, causing the doctor to huddle into himself to protect from the cold. He turns in the direction of Baker Street, hoping that he can make it in under ten minutes.

He grips the bags in his hand tighter and starts his journey home. Two minutes into his walk, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in apprehension, he automatically knows someone is following him. He continues walking but strains his ears, he can hear faint steps behind him._ "Big deal, someone is walking behind, it's a footpath."_ John thinks to himself, remaining calm. Even though logic is on his side, John subtly picks up his pace, folding his limbs in on himself and pulling his coat tighter, pretending that his quickened pace is a result of the cold. He hears the faint steps behind him also pick up the pace. Now his paranoia starts to seep into his mind with more force.

John quickly glances up towards the CCTV cameras, none of them move away from him. _"Mycroft is out then."_ John sighs, checking the politician off his list. The thought only causes him to walk faster.

The doctor turns the corner onto the next street and immediately notices how deserted it is, unusually so for this time of day. An observation that sneaks into his mind without provocation._ "Thank you Sherlock Holmes."_ The suspicions soon burn at his curiosity. Quickly, the blond man, without changing his pace, shoots a glance over his shoulder.

John stops abruptly. There is nobody behind him. He circles on the footpath, there is nobody in sight. John shakes his head at his paranoia and starts his journey again, still keeping his ears open.

Halfway down the street, John passes an alley and briefly sees a figure leaning against the brick. The posture suggests they are waiting for something, or someone. The fact that the street is empty and this one figure is waiting for someone makes John's paranoia flare up.

John hears the rustle of the coat before he hears the loud footsteps immediately behind him. Before he knows it, he suddenly ducks, surprising himself. He feels a rush of air above his head where a fist sweeps through empty air. He side steps to his left, running into the alley beside him, dropping the bags in the process. He prepares to break into a run when he sees a figure at the end of the alley walking towards him. The older man walks forward, and John recognises his stance instantly, military, higher ranking.

"Nice to see you again, Johnny." Chapped lips sneer at the doctor.

* * *

><p>The familiar beep and sounds of vibrations against wood echo in the flat.<p>

"John. Phone." Sherlock calls out. His mind focusing strictly in the confines of his mind palace at the moment and he can't be bothered with fetching his phone. This case is tricky. A serial killer no doubt.

The phone beeps and vibrates again.

"John. Phone!" Sherlock demands impatiently. No response. Sighing, the detective opens his eyes.

"John-" He starts looking around the flat. "Oh, you are not here."

He stands up and walks into the kitchen, his phone lay on the table next to two mugs. No water in them, but all of the fixings for tea beside them.

"Ah, milk." Sherlock observes, a slight panic flashes through him, it always does these days when he can't see John. He pushes the feeling aside and takes a deep breath.

"MRS. HUDSON!" Sherlock walks out to the landing and calls down.

"Dear lord, what now?" he hears Mrs. Hudson clattering about below.

"What is it dear?" Mrs. Hudson calls up the stairs.

"What time did John leave?" Sherlock asks.

"Oh about an hour ago I suppose." Mrs. Hudson answers. "What's wrong?" Sherlock hears her ask, but he is already in the sitting room his mind reeling with data. If he is only getting milk, surely it wouldn't take over an hour. A sense of panic floods through his body again, that's when he remembers his phone going off. It is all too coincidental.

Sherlock strolls to the kitchen and picks up his phone, two new messages alert his home screen.

_Well, I see you let your pet off your leash -M_

Anger seethes through the detective.

_It seems Raymond might have been a little to eager to see the doctor. - M_

What have you done to him? -SH

Sherlock taps furiously into his phone, panic and anger threatening to explode. Once he sends his reply to Moriarty he taps another message out.

_To Lestrade_

_Moriarty has taken or hurt John. Need assistance. Check streets around Baker street._

_ -SH_

His phones beeps as soon as he hits the send button, a new message from a blocked number appear on his screen.

_Oh now, don't get tetchy. I didn't take him, I didn't even hurt him, can't say the same for Ray. I only reunited them. _

_You should hurry though, it's kind of cold and the last time I checked lying in a puddle unconscious with your shirt open isn't good for you. -M_

Sherlock is already grabbing his coat and halfway out the door by the time he finishes reading the text. Forcing his coat on in one swift motion, he dashes across the street, ignoring the honks of traffic. His sole focus on examining the route John took when going to get the milk. He sprints through the crowded footpaths, down streets and around corners. He turns the next corner and notices something strange. He stops and observes. Before he can see anything of value he hears a noise.

A faint grunt resonates throughout the alley. He turns his head towards the sound and sees a figure crumpled upon the ground, on his side halfway down the alley.

Sherlock knows immediately who is laying there.

"John."


	6. Hello Ray

Well isn't everyone here lucky. Two chapters uploaded simultaneously. I didn't intend for that to happen.

Thank you guys for you're reviews and alerts. I have about two chapters that just need to be typed after this so it should be too long in between updates.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p><em>Previously: "Nice to see you again, Johnny." Chapped lips sneer at the doctor<em>

* * *

><p>"Raymond." John says calmly, his stance straightening, fist clench in preparation for a fight.<p>

"Oh well done, Johnny." The man in front of him says, clapping his hands together manically. Montague saunters, approaching the ex-soldier like he is prey. John backs away from him and his predatory glances, towards the safety of the street. He stops swiftly at new footsteps clanking in the alleyway behind him. The doctor shoots a quick glance over his shoulder at the noise. John sees the same man from the alleyway before, except now he recognises him. Nathanial Leonard. John sighs in protest. Leonard walks towards him trapping him in the bricked tube of an alleyway. John sees a flash of something black in his hand. A gun. John inwardly groans,_ great_.

"This isn't my lucky month." John mutters, bracing himself for the inevitable and probably painful confrontation. The soldier in him remaining in complete control and calm in crisis. Ray chuckles lightly, coming to stop, standing directly in front of the doctor. John flinches away at the closeness and throws another glance towards Leonard. The younger man is leaning against the brick wall, not even looking at the two of them, fiddling with his gun with disinterest.

John turns back towards his attacker. He feels a hand on his chest suddenly, trailing lightly along his coat. John can't help but shudder in response. Involuntarily, John closes his eyes and his breathing picks up. His worst nightmare, right in front of him and there is nothing he can do.

John raises his casted hand up and tries to push Montague's hand away. A hand grabs the cast roughly. "How's the blogging going?" Ray chuckles, holding the cast in one hand and stroking it with the other. John stares for a minute and then comes back to his senses.

"Sod off, you bastard." John spat, jerking his hand out of the man's grip. Anger boils out of nowhere, pushing the calm soldier out of the way. John pulls back his uninjured hand and connects his fist with the older man's jaw. Montague almost drops from the surprise. John makes the move to run but hands at his lapels stop him, holding him in place. The doctor sees Montague's eyes flash in anger, he tries to get away from the man. He hears the gun behind him click, the safety turning off. John stiffens and stills at the threat.

"You really shouldn't have done that." The older man coos, anger leaving his eyes, and a whole different emotion taking over, lust, longing. A repulsive shudder trembles through John. One of Monatgue's hands leave John lapels and strokes lightly at his own jaw. The doctor smirks at the thought of a bruise forming there. Ray smiles and places the hand back on John's chest, running his hand over his jacketed torso.

"Why? Why are you here?" John asks weakly, writhing feebly, and moving the caressing hand away again, this time slowly and surprised when Ray lets him.

"Ha ha, that should be obvious. Moriarty wants to burn the heart out of Sherlock." Montague states and closes the little distance between himself and the soldier. John freezes in a masked peril. The older man runs his hands over the temporarily paralyzed man. His fingertips running over the soft coat, unbuttoning it quickly.

"Stop." John says quietly, determined to not let this man win a second time, he pushes the abusive hand away from his body and backs away, defiantly.

"Tsk tsk." Montague states. With a sudden movement, Ray grabs the lapels of John's coat again and forcibly shoves him against the nearest wall. John's head hits the brick with a sickening thud, his knees buckle, giving out at his weight, he would have fallen if Montague wasn't holding him so tight. He regains his balance and his knees hold him. His vision frays at the edges.

"Get off." John spits angrily.

The older man slams John against the brick wall again, another thud and John's knees buckle for the second time, only to be held up by his attacker again.

"Whoa, Johnny." Ray smirks holding his lapels firmly. The doctor tries to straighten himself, he struggles to get away, anywhere but in this alleyway with this bastard pushing himself flush against John. Ray holds him firm.

The blond man's vision is starting to blur. He feels the body against him but he's powerless to stop.

He can feel Montague unbutton the rest of his coat and then his shirt. Cold bites at his bare chest, making him shiver.

"You know it's a win-win." Montague says running his hands all over John's body. John squirms at the touch. He feels fingers tracing his newest white scars roughly. "These are beautiful." The doctor feels a hot breath on his ear as the pressure on the scars increase almost painfully. John feels lips against his neck, traveling down to his clavicle. Montague sucks softly at his skin than biting down hard, blood coming to the surface, leaving his own repulsive love bite. John gasps and writhes, his head throbbing and his body not reacting strongly enough to flee.

Sounds are beginning to fade in and out, he knows he is going to pass out soon. He forces his eyes to stay open.

"Like I said, it's a win-win. Moriarty gets to send a message and I get to see you again." Montague states after leaving another love bite on his skin. John feels the attacker's tongue tracing his gun shot wound wetly, causing John to gasp. He struggles against the hold, swaying dangerously on the spot.

A beep reverberates through the alley. John thinks he is imagining things. The grip on him never loosens but he doesn't feel the intrusive tongue of Montague anymore. He hears muffled voices, he can't make out what they are saying, they are to far away and John's head hurts too much to concentrate.

"Johnny, our time is up again, just as it starts getting good." Montague's voice says sadly, this only makes John shudder with repulsion. "I have to give you a message." John's head lolls against his bare chest, unconsciousness at every corner of his mind. Unintentionally, his knees buckle again and Ray holds him against the wall.

"Johnny, Are you even listening?" He feels the hot breath on his ear again. He can't get his body to move away from it. A sharp pain erupts from his shoulder, where his newest gun shot wound resides. Ray digs his nails into the tender area causing pained gasps from the doctor. The blond looks straight in the older man's eyes, the pain sobering him up a little bit. "Good boy. The message is..." Ray starts and before John can react, a fist comes flying out of nowhere and connects painfully with his nose. John drops to the ground unceremoniously, water splashes as John lands in the puddle below him. He can feel blood gushing out of his nose, flowing down his face. He tries to get to his knees, but flops down with a grunt.

"Johnny, you are the heart. There are big plans for you." Ray snaps, looking down at the struggling, yet gorgeous man before him. He kneels into the puddle, "It was nice to see you again." Montague says pummeling his fist into the doctors face, sending his head into the ground.

John thankfully passes out, not hearing the third and final sickening thud.

* * *

><p>Sherlock whips out his phone and texts Lestrade and Mycroft as he runs down the alley towards the lifeless doctor.<p>

_To Greg Lestrade, Alley off of North Cumberland street. Need ambulance._

_SH_

_To Mycroft_

_Attackers still in the area, John is hurt. _

_SH_

The detective pockets his phone, hearing sirens in the distance.

"John." Sherlock yells as he reaches the body. He notices everything in a split second. The doctor's shirt is open, revealing his bare chest, Sherlock represses a shudder at the thought. The detective scans for damages. He notices the blood gushing from his nose and a small cut on his cheek. A right hook no doubt, there will be heavy bruising later on. The leaner man feels around the doctor's head, he finds the wounds dripping blood from where his head connected with the wall. Concussion is probable.

Sherlock grabs the doctor and pulls the wet, limp body onto his lap.

"John!" The genius calls, shaking the smaller man gently. A soft grunt responds.

"Sher..lock." John gasps out, wincing in the sudden pain he starts to feel again. "My head."

"I'm here. It's okay." Sherlock says gripping John tight, tears, for the umpteenth time this month, threaten to fall down his face.

John's eyelids blink open, unfocused and blurred. He doesn't bother scanning the alleyway, he just looks at Sherlock's slightly blurring form. He notices the wetness threatening to spill from the young detective.

"No, it's okay...just...a concussion." John puffs trying to soothe the detective, the doctor's eyelids flutter as he tenses with pain.

"It's okay, I got you. The ambulance will be here soon." Sherlock says, his arms embracing the older man firmly.

"Ugh." John cries out softly. Sherlock tenses at the sound, automatically scanning for other injuries he might have missed. His hands start to roam haphazardly around John's body looking for damage.

"Whats wrong? What hurts?" Sherlock panics after finding no exterior wounds, assuming the worst, internal bleeding.

"Nothing...just got...out of the hospital.." John tries to chuckle, but soon he is in the throes of a coughing fit, his eyes dropping. Sherlock returns the laugh, a little too hysterically, the emotions are getting to him.

Sirens explode in the street and it isn't long until Sherlock can hear the frantic voice of Mycroft. "Sherlock!"

The young genius turns his head towards the entrance of the alleyway, surprised to see Mycroft and Lestrade jogging in his direction. He notices Greg's rumpled hair and hastily button shirt and Mycroft's lack of umbrella._ Oh._

"Where's the ambulance?" Sherlock demands, for once ignoring his deductions.

"Two minutes." Greg answers dropping to his knees next to the two men on the ground. "What happened?" The DI asks.

"It's obvious." Sherlock snaps tetchy, emotions wearing thin. "It was obviously-"

"Montague...bastard." Not wanting an argument, John interrupts, calm in his voice but the strength of it dwindling. He tries to keep his eyelids open but tiredness is pulling at him.

"John, you have to stay with me." Sherlock demands rocking the doctor gently in his lap. He half notices Mycroft pulling out his mobile and walking away barking orders into the device.

"I will never leave you." John proclaims, a goofy smile curling his lips. The detective smiles back at the hysterical sight.

"John Watson, you cannot go to sleep." Sherlock commands firmly. "Is that better phrasing?"

"Adequate...I guess." John pants, the pain clouding his inhibitions. "I'm tired though." John says closing his eyes against his will, pain coursing through him, causing him to wince.

"I don't care, _Doctor_." John hears the detective sneer lightly. The doctor huffs a little and tries to fight his eyelids, opening them and then they would fall close again, he knows it's a losing battle.

"John." Sherlock warns.

"I'm sorry...I'm trying." John mumbles.

"John, stay awake you selfish bastard." The frantic insult is the last thing he hears before blackness.

* * *

><p>Sherlock cannot count on one hand how many times he has sat in the waiting rooms of hospitals of London. A thought screams at him and says if he can't count, then it's too many visits.<p>

Although, he remembers every visit to a certain extent. He, however, cannot recall, a trip this bad, this determined to try his patience so fiercely. Even worse than the two week stint only a month previous. He wants to rip his hair out from the wait.

A month earlier, he only had to wait four hours before he was at John's side again, granted it was his comatose side, but he was able to be near him, to touch him nonetheless. The detective has been waiting six hours, twenty three minutes and fifteen seconds, since the hospital staff ripped the doctor away from him upon entering the A&E.

Mycroft and Lestrade sit together in the deserted waiting room, trying not to be annoying with their hands together. Sherlock, in a different situation, would have taken this opportunity to annoy the elder Holmes about his openness of his relationship or how he had interrupted their afternoon romp.

He is too tired now, his mind is only focused on seeing John again.

Two hours ago, he vaguely remembers trying to send them both away, partly because he wanted to be alone in his guilt and self pity, but mostly he couldn't take their hands holding in comfort. Not while John is hurt, again. Despite his protests, they both remain._ For comfort?_ Sherlock muses to himself glancing over at them as they busy themselves with magazines and chit chat, much to the annoyance the younger man. They probably stayed to prevent Sherlock from going on a murderous spree throughout the hospital in an attempt to find John.

Another half an hour later and Sherlock is pacing, wearing a path in the cheap tiles beneath his feet. Just when Lestrade opens his mouth to demand the detective to sit down, doors swing open, causing all three men to stare in hope at the occupant exiting into the waiting room.

Sherlock stops pacing and his head locks on the figures coming through the doors.

John is sitting in a wheelchair, being pushed out by a very chatty nurse who is clearly cheating on her husband. The doctor looks haggard, his face worn. A bandage is wrapped around his head and knuckles. The doctor's face has been cleaned, to wash away the blood no doubt. John is wearing the same clothes, albeit dried since the last time Sherlock saw them. His shirt and jacket are buttoned again. Exhaustion seeps through the doctor's face as he responds eagerly at the talkative nurse, his eyes dropping a little bit.

John's head turns towards the waiting room and instantly finds Sherlock, his lips curl into a sleepy, sloppy smile. The nurse wheels the older man to the waiting men.

"Hi." John says tiredly. Sherlock stares at him dumbfounded. John moves to stand up.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock blurts out incredulously. Why isn't he in a bed? What is the idiot doing, getting up from the wheelchair?

"Well it's nice to see you too, I'm doing very well thank you for asking." John huffs standing up straight, wincing a little bit, but it's barely noticeable. Sherlock sees it because he is looking for any signs of pain. "Thank you, Katy." John smiles at the nurse dismissively, who nods and walks away with the wheelchair.

"John, shouldn't you be staying for observation?" Lestrade mutters awkwardly, standing up (Mycroft following closely behind) and moving towards the arrogant doctor.

John holds up a hand, sighing. "It's just a concussion and some cuts and bruises. He didn't even break my nose." John says looking at the silent Sherlock, who is scowling with his arms crossed. The icy eyes stare worriedly at him. John moves his hand toward the detective who uncrosses his arm and takes intertwines their fingers. "Besides," John starts, turning towards the inspector. "I'm a doctor, they gave me medication, I can take care of myself at home."

"You idiot." Sherlock says softly, wrapping an arm around the smaller man in front of him.

"I thought we have seen enough of hospitals for a lifetime." John comments, leaning into the dark haired man.

"Quite right." Sherlock mutters appreciatively into John's hair. He feels the doctor sway lightly on his feet, he grips him tighter.

"Can we go home now, I'm tired." John states and to validate his claim, yawns sheepishly.

"I'll give you a ride." Lestrade offers,

"That would be great, Greg." John responds before Sherlock can refuse the ride in the police car.

Lestrade perks up and gingerly wraps his hand around the unusually quiet Mycroft, who smiles in return and they both walk towards the exit. Sherlock scoffs.

"It's still kind of weird seeing them together." John quips.

"At least one of them isn't your brother." Sherlock mumbles. John just nods.

"Why were they here anyway?" John says lightly tugging at the petulant man-child next to him.

Sherlock hugs John tighter and moves with him in the direction of the hospital's exit. "Presumably preventing a crime." Sherlock mumbles, barely audible.

John sniggers and gasps as the cool night air rushes their faces welcoming them into the bitter London air.

As the get closer to Lestrade's car, Sherlock grumbles in protest.

"Not tonight, I'm tired and I don't want to wait for a taxi." John scolds, to tired to deal with a grouse detective. He flashes the genius a beaming, goofy smile.

"Fine." Sherlock grunts. John smiles in triumph and swears he hears 'only because you are adorable and I can't say no when you smile like that." being mumbled out of Sherlock's mouth.

John leans tiredly against Sherlock and watches Mycroft plant a clean kiss on Lestrade before getting in a waiting black car.

Once settled in the back seat of the panda car, John sighs in relief and tiredness, he leans heavily on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock embraces the contact and relishes in the health of John. His mood increases significantly now that John is alright. In light of his contentment, the detective decides to punish the DI who forced him into a police car.

"So how was the sex with my brother before it got interrupted?"

Sherlock never was one for tact.

After the initial shock, Lestrade almost losing control of the vehicle, and the DI's sputtering at Sherlock's blunt statement, silence envelops the car and John easily passes out in the car, wrapped firmly in Sherlock's arms.


	7. Scarf Blues

Yeah, so there is smut at the end of this chapter, I don't know how good it is, but I think the story needed it. I have the next three chapters written out so no worries.

I'm finally getting a feel for this story I think. You should let me what you think

Thanks everyone for the reviews and story alerts and favorites that so awesome.

Also, I'm not British, as I'm sure most of you are already aware. I try though.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p>"John, wake up. We're home." Sherlock says gently shaking the blond man beside him. The rest of the car ride passed in comfortable silence, Lestrade would occasionally glance back sheepishly at the younger Holmes as they made their way to Baker Street.<p>

"Hmm, okay." John says reaching for the door handle and missing it by meters.

"That didn't even seem like an honest attempt, John." Sherlock sniggers, reaching over him and opens the door. He helps John, as John humphs, out of the car and makes his way towards the door of 221 Baker Street.

"We're fine." Sherlock says to Lestrade who hangs around, not awkwardly, just with concern and ready to be available if help is needed. Lestrade opens his mouth but shuts it when Sherlock speaks again.

"Tomorrow, Lestrade, we will come in tomorrow for a statement." Sherlock says, John practically sleeping on him as he finds his keys. Lestrade face is in bewilderment. He sighs and moves back towards the driver's seat muttering "How does he do that?" under his breath.

"You are too obvious." Sherlock smirks at the DI who just gets in his car and drives off. Sherlock opens the door finally and guides a half-sleepy doctor into the hallway.

"Oh my dears. Are you okay. What has happened this time John!" Mrs. Hudson fusses as soon as they hang up their coats.

"'M alright Mrs. H." John slurs sleepily. "Just tired." He adds, waving an erratic hand dismissively.

"I say, what you boys get into. Just call me if you need anything." Mrs. Hudson says walking up to John and placing a motherly kiss on his forehead, John smiles at the sentiment and turns to head upstairs.

The detective anticipates that half carrying, half dragging John up the 17 steps will be a trial and it doesn't disappoint. They almost tumble back twice as they slowly make their way, side by side up the flight of stairs.

Both men practically fall into the sitting room, huffing and panting at the exertion. John giggles hysterically as he almost falls down onto the ground. Sherlock holds onto him tight and they remind upright just beyond the doorway of the sitting room.

"John." Sherlock starts, dragging John towards their bedroom.

"Tea. I really need tea." John insists. "Before I become unconscious, I would like some tea." He adds, sobering up for a second to make his way into the kitchen. The older man disentangles their arms and walks rather steady, albeit slowly, but steady towards the kitchen.

Sherlock tenses when John stops mid way to the kitchen, as if frozen on the spot. He stares at the armchair a few feet in front of him. Sherlock scans the chair and sees nothing out of the ordinary. The chair is how is always has been, the union jack cushion resting on it, John's scarf laying across the top from where he had thrown it while ranting about work or milk or something.

John walks towards the scarf and picks it up in one swift motion. His eyes swell with tears. Sherlock stares at the scene in front of him with confusion. As soon as the tears escape, he rushes over to the doctor.

"John, what's wrong? What hurts?" Sherlock says, concern lacing his voice as he scans John's face and body for injuries or any signs of distress.

"No, it's okay," John sniffs and wipes the back of his hand with his sleeve. "I just- I ruined your scarf." John wails, yes wails, at this statement, gripping his own scarf tightly in his hand. Tears flowing down his cheeks, overwrought with sadness. Sherlock puts his hand on the shorter man and turns him around to face each other. "I'm sorry, it was your favorite scarf." John cries, not making eye contact with the younger man in front of him.

"John it's okay. It was just a scarf." Sherlock say trying not to giggle at the complete ridiculousness of the situation, he wraps his arms around the hysterical man.

"They binned it, there was too much blood. I'm soooo sorry. I'm sorry." John weeps, the exhaustion and over tiredness completely toying with his emotions. He snuggles into the embrace, his head nuzzling shamefully into Sherlock's shirt.

"John," Sherlock says, starting to pull away to look the man, the silly, adorable man, in the eyes. John only holds on tighter.

"I will understand if you want me to leave, it was your favorite scarf." John says quietly. Sherlock tenses at the statement, still trying to stifle the giggles, he tries, and fails epically because the situation is so absurd.

"John, look at me," The detective says a hint of chuckling in his voice. A tear stained face gazes into his.

"I'm not leaving you," Sherlock starts, he can feel John relax a bit at the statement. "..and if I ever did," John tenses. "which I won't, I never will leave you willingly." Sherlock clarifies. "It would never be over a scarf." Sherlock says cupping John's face in his hand. "Understand?" John nods.

"Come On let's forget about tea and just go to bed, you are way to tired to enjoy tea anyway." Sherlock says and then puts a chaste kiss on John to bribe him away from the kitchen. He can see how tired John is, but he doesn't want to deal with the emotional upheaval tonight when they realize that their is no milk because it was still scattered across the pavement in front of the alleyway.

Funny how milk was a catalyst for such a deplorable day.

* * *

><p>"John." Sherlock says lying down next to the limp body next to him. He just finished removing all the unnecessary clothing from the undead doctor.<p>

"Hmmm." John answers.

"Too bad they binned the scarf." Sherlock could feel the doctor stiffen.

"It would have been a great experiment on blood splatter." Sherlock states wrapping himself around the doctor who relaxes into his touch.

"Only you. I love you" John mumbles and lets out a chuckle that quickly turns into a snore.

"I love you, John Watson." Sherlock states

* * *

><p>John awakes the next day, his head exploding with pain. He grunts and reaches out automatically. He frowns at the cold space next to him. John turns his head slightly, the empty space next to him sends a wave of disappointment, which is silly because half of the time, John wakes up alone, anyway. Sherlock is always gallivanting somewhere or doing experiments at all hours of the night. A wave of pain in his head distracts him and he pushes himself off the bed in search for his medication and tea, oh yes tea.<p>

He walks into the kitchen, in his shorts and a white undershirt. He shields his eyes from the blinding light and tries to rub the sleepiness out. He hears clanking in the kitchen that sounds like a train collision.

"Ugh." John cries at the noise making the pain in his head worsen. He doesn't know if he is in the mood for an experiment today, not after what happened yesterday. He just wants to rest, all day long and not be disturbed.

"John? You are two minutes early." Sherlock booms, his voice stopping John as he enters the sitting room, wincing at the loud noise. He decides to take refuge in the couch for now, not trusting the nausea that is creeping up in him and not wanting to see what is in the kitchen just yet. He lowers himself gently on the couch, bringing his hands up to his temples and squeezes his eyes shut against the noise and light. Sherlock peaks his head out of the kitchen and immediately finds John's body on the couch, curled in on himself and his hand on his temples, eyes screwed shut.

The flat lays quietly, a brush against his hand causing the doctor to jump and regret it instantly. "ugh."

"Here." Sherlock says pressing two pills into the doctor's hand and a fresh mug of tea.

John swallows the pills and a gulp of tea. He knows it's illogical, but he almost instantly feels better. He's convinces himself its the tea. He sits up, eyes still closed and sips the tea. He lays his head gently across the back of the couch. His headache dwindles almost magically.

"Wait, you made tea." John blurts out just realising, even though his cup is half empty, opening his eyes. He jumps a little when he notices that Sherlock is so close. He sits across from him on the coffee table watching him intently. He notices that he is in his traditional wear, silk trousers and his purple shirt, Jesus that purple shirt. John gapes at the perfect sight in front of him, the perfect curled hair and grinning smile on his boyfriend's face.

"Yes, it is extremely hot, you were two minutes early, but It doesn't look like you care about the temperature." Sherlock says, shifting awkwardly. _"Since when does Sherlock shift awkwardly."_ John thinks to himself. The adorable sight in front of him is almost too much. He carefully puts his mug down and stares into Sherlock's eyes. The detective is curious at the sudden dismissal of the tea and opens his mouth to say something.

John leans forward, pulling at the purple shirt and mashes his lips on the younger man. Their lips meet tenderly and softly. John's tongue traces Sherlock's lower lip, then nibbles at it. Sherlock groans in pleasure. The detective opens his mouth and their tongues meet, massaging and exploring.

Finally, what seems like hours later, they break apart, panting for breath.

"As much as I really want to continue this, I really want to finish my tea." John says pressing a quick kiss to the genius's lips, grabbing the mug he set down earlier.

"Are you really choosing tea over the purple shirt of sex!" Sherlock teases moving his hands over his shirt for emphasis.

John almost spits out his tea. "I told you to stop calling it that." John states, drinking his tea, doing deducing of his own where this conversation is leading and he really wants to finish his tea.

"Why, don't you agree?" Sherlock says, his voice low and seductive. He stands up and plants himself onto John, straddling his hips. John leans back with his cup and tries to distract himself from the genius sitting on him, not just sitting on him, straddling him, manipulating him.

"Why are you dressed anyway? Do you have somewhere to go today?" John asks trying to distract the genius who is now placing kisses along his neck, as John drinks his tea awkwardly.

Sherlock stiffens and stops kissing. He hovers over John's neck and wraps his arms around the doctor. "I had to go shopping." He says quietly.

"Wait you went shopping." John asks incredulously. "Tea and shopping in one day." John eyes him suspiciously. _Something is amiss,_ John thinks. He wonders if it could be because of yesterday, John shakes his head internally, yesterday really wasn't that big of deal, other than the molestation and- _"Stop yourself right there Watson."_ John accosts himself. He moves on to another train of thought, it's not because of yesterday, not entirely. Besides, when John came home from his two weeks in the hospital previously, Sherlock refused to get milk just like before. The detective only went shopping because John was just going to go without him and Sherlock would never have allowed that. John straightens himself as best as possible and imitates Sherlock's deducing pose.

"Okay, lay it on me." Sherlock raises his eyebrows in surprise at the expression and at his eagerness for John to deduce him.

"Give me a second," John says snidely, earning a chuckle from the detective who goes back to laying nibbles and kisses all over John's neck.

"That's really distracting." John mock scolds the detective.

"Tough." Sherlock chuckles and continues lightly kissing his neck.

Okay, anyway. He went shopping and made tea, the tea was easy, he did to make me feel better, how adorable, he feels guilty about yesterday.

"Yes I do." Sherlock's voice says muffled against the Doctor's neck.

"Stop reading my mind." John teases. "We will come back to that." John continues. What would he go shopping for that we didn't already have? We have everything? Except?

"You went and bought milk," John says lamely. Sherlock smiles into his neck, a sad smile. John flashes back to the alleyway for a second, he remembers dropping the shopping at the mouth of the alley, his mind flashes to the face of Ray biting at me and touching him. His body trembles a little bit and stiffens at the unwelcome memory.

"He-He kept touching me." John says quietly. "He kept biting me." John flinches involuntarily when a lingering kiss is placed on John's neck. Sherlock stops kissing and lays his head against the doctor's shoulder, the detective tenses against him, in anger, disappointment, betrayal.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring it up." John stammers, afraid of his own reaction and the detectives'.

"I'm not mad, I-I'm so sorry, John." Sherlock mutters, sadness evident in his voice. "I love you so much, I couldn't protect you."

"It's not your fault." John states after a few silent minutes in contemplation.

"I didn't even notice that you left. I was busy in my mind palace. I would have gone with you." Sherlock frowns. "And he touched you, even after I promised you he wouldn't." John places his tea onto the table next to him awkwardly, since Sherlock wouldn't let go. The doctor cups Sherlock's chin and tilts it upward.

"I don't blame you, you were being you. Doing what you do best, and I love every bit of it." John says looking into the detectives eyes. "Besides, it was my fault for putting my guard down, I thought I was safe. I forgot," John sighs. "I could have fought harder."

"No John, it's not your fault, they had gun, you shouldn't have even done this." Sherlock states bringing the doctor's bandage knuckles into view. "It's not your fault, it's Moriarty's, it's Montague's understand?" Sherlock stares at John begging for him to understand.

"Yeah I guess," John admits after a few minutes of them just staring at each other. "As long as you understand the same thing. We can't just keep blaming ourselves. It was Moriarty's fault and no one else." John says firmly putting their foreheads together.

"Maybe Mycrofts." Sherlock mutters.

"Sherlock." John growls playfully.

"Okay, Okay, Moriarty's sole fault, check." Sherlock caves, "but if he wasn't busy shagging Greg at the-"

"Sherlock." John cries.

"Okay okay." Sherlock says.

"Sherlock?" John says timidly, casting his eyes downwards, lips inches away from each other, breathing in each other.

"Yes John." Sherlock answers just as timid, concerned with John's tone. Had he missed something, was there something John wasn't telling him. Did Montague do more?

"Can-Can you kiss me again." John asks sheepishly. "I just want to get him out of my head, I don't want him controlling how I feel." John adds waiting hopeful, he looks back into Sherlock's eyes. The detective leans in and kisses John, lightly at first and then tilts John's head up and makes the kiss deeper.

"Is that okay?" Sherlock asks gasping for breath. John nods for him to continuing. This time, the detective takes more control and nibbles and licks John's bottom lip. John opens his mouth and Sherlock explores every inch of it. John moans in pleasure and bucks involuntarily. Finally they break, gasping for breath. Sherlock moves to John's neck and sticks out his tongue, licking all around John's neck. Sherlock right hand cups John's cheek, tracing his jaw line.

John closes his eyes and relishes in the touches, how different they are from Montague's. He can trust Sherlock, the detective loves him. Sherlock licks up his neck and brings his hands to the hem of John's shirt, sliding his hands underneath it. John gasps as the detective hands trace across his abdomen, not careful to avoid the scarring wounds but not paying an obscene amount of time on them. He acts as if they aren't there, much to John's relief who wants to forget about them as much as he want to forget about Montague's nasty touches. Sherlock's lean fingers crawl up John's chest and to his nipples, distracting John from his thoughts. Sherlock tweaks and pinches John's nipples, fully aware how sensitive the doctor is. John bucks again, moaning in pleasure. Sherlock can feel John's hardening length through his thin shorts. He palms the erection and massaging it through the material.

"Sherlock." John moans, finally coming back to his senses and starts to unbutton the purple shirt of sex, revealing perfect smooth skin beneath it. John grabs Sherlock's face and kisses him again, this time more needy and desperate. They both moan in pleasure.

"John. Bedroom." Sherlock gasps. They both jump up, leaving a trail of clothes behind them as they clumsily undress each other on the way to the bedroom, getting distracted numerous times in the hall.

"Sherlock. I do not want to shag you in the hall, move it." John screams after the third distraction in the hall way. _"I look forward to your complaints, Mrs. Hudson."_

When they finally get to the bedroom, Sherlock pushes John onto bed, a bit rough but neither seem to mind. He quickly strips his underwear, John managed to lose his on the way through the short hall. Sherlock stands soaking in John, in all his erect beauty.

"Sherlock, god help me, get over here." John demands. Sherlock jumps on him, their erections rubbing together. John gasps. Sherlock kisses John and snakes a hand down his chest and grabs John's length, stroking it slowly.

"Uhnngg." John grunts. Loudly.

"Shhh, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock sniggers, stroking his cock faster.

"Fuck...Mrs...Hudson." John stammers between breaths. "Sherlock, fuck me. I want you inside me right now." John calls. Sherlock smiles and reaches for the lube.

"Turn over and on your knees." Sherlock commands. John rolls onto to his stomach and kneels on the bed, arse out. As he prepares John, Sherlock watches the writhing, former soldier completely broken down. He loves every minute of it. He pushes himself into the doctor with a groan.

"Sherlock...oh god...yes." John moans. In one sudden movement, Sherlock grabs John around his waist, sitting the doctor up on his cock. John wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck behind him. John starts riding Sherlock like no tomorrow.

"Oh my god, John. You are so tight." Sherlock says. Pushing himself into John's thrusting hips. Sweat mixes together and soon the room erupts in incoherent grunts and callings of names. Sherlock grabs John's cock and strokes it rapidly.

"Uhnngn Sherlock. Don't..stop..." John pants riding Sherlock. The smell of sex and sounds of skin slapping together adds to the room.

"I'm close, I'm...gonna.." John stammers. Sherlock strokes John's cock harder, pushing in John with more force. John screams his name and three strokes later, John screams Sherlock's name again as he comes. Sherlock follows right away, their visions blinded by white spots.

A few moments later they lay side by side on the best, their naked bodies wrapped in each other in a post-coital haze.

"I Love you" John says, eyes drifting close in pure bliss.

"I Love you too."

* * *

><p>Well isn't that...sweet.<p> 


	8. Happy Halloween

Yay. This chapter is okay I guess. It kind of needed to happen but I'm not to happy about it I guess. Let me know what you think.

I've outlined the rest of the story, there should be about 10-11 chapters ahead if I don't add in surprises and such.

Thank you to all the Story Alerts and Reviews, I relish in your comments.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p>Tonight is a full moon and coincidentally Halloween Eve, and unsurprisingly Sherlock and John are on the chase.<p>

An anonymous tip had come into Lestrade personally this morning. It was a webcam link to a little girl trapped in an airtight room who only had 12 hours to live before she ran out of air. Naturally, he automatically called Sherlock, who with John's pushing, agreed to help.

Eleven and a half hours and several wild goose chases later, they finally narrow it down to two different warehouses that the girl could be in. Lestrade, John and Sherlock take the warehouse with the most probability of finding the little girl, while Donovan is in charge of a second team sent to the other location.

Halloween isn't the only substantial event of the night. This is John's first case since the flat invasion and the alleyway, his cast finally off and his physical recovery complete, John, himself is ready. But it isn't John who's the hesitant one tonight, Sherlock originally wanted to turn down the case. The detective stated some quip about not doing child cases, but Sherlock knew that this case would be too strenuous for the doctor, the detective isn't too keen on getting John in the line of danger nowadays.

John thinks this is nice and all, but if the doctor is to be honest with himself, and in this situation he had to be brutally honest with himself, he is getting bored. He misses the excitement and he's been excitement-less for weeks, and not the bad excitement of getting beat up in the flat or alleyways. John misses the chase. So it is because of John that the three men are now standing in front of a small, but menacing warehouse.

"Too bad Mycroft isn't here, I'm sure he would like this warehouse." John states lightly. The three men chuckle and walk into the warehouse, torches in their hands.

Ten minutes of searching through the various rooms and crannies, nothing turns up. They still have three levels to search and time is running short.

"We need to split up." John suggests.

"I agree," Lestrade states.

"No." Sherlock says to the surprise of both men. "I don't know what's in here, we aren't splitting up." Sherlock states trying to not looking pointedly at John. However, John notices all the same.

"Oh come off it you overprotective git. It's fine. I've got my gun." John says, putting his hand behind his back for emphasis. "We are splitting up, communicate through phones." John states and walks off in one direction towards the lowest floor. Sherlock actually smiles as the doctor walks away. It's a small, kind of sad smile, but it's a smile nonetheless, a smile that reassures Sherlock that everything is okay, no need to be paranoid. Then why are the hairs on the back of his neck standing up straight, preparing themselves for war?

"Confident isn't he." Lestrade jokes, Sherlock shrugs and walks to his floor, leaving Lestrade to search his area. "I'll meet you back here." Sherlock says disappearing into the dark corridor.

Ten minutes later, Lestrade finds himself thinking. The warehouse isn't very big, it won't take long for them much longer to search the entire thing. His phone rings.

"DI Lestrade."

"Lestrade, we found the girl at the other warehouse." Donovan states, clear relief in her voice. "All safe and sound. It was easy, she was in the first room we looked, sir."

"Good job Donovan." Lestrade says and hangs up. Something isn't right about this, they are at the wrong warehouse, the girl was easily found. Something doesn't add up, even for an idiot Lestrade could sense somethings off.

He flips open his mobile again and dials Sherlock, he tells him to meet back where they split up. Lestrade then goes to call John. He doesn't pick up.

Lestrade rounds a corner and sees Sherlock on his phone.

"I couldn't get a hold of him, bad cell reception?" Lestrade states.

"Maybe," Sherlock says trying not to sound panicked and paranoid.

"They found the girl in the other warehouse." Lestrade says. "Something's off, I thought you said she would most likely be here..." Lestrade asks

Sherlock eyes widen in shock and he takes off running in the direction that John went. Lestrade follows without hesitation.

"John!" Sherlock yells down the corridors.

"What's going on?" Lestrade asks when he ran up next to him, keeping pace.

"Moriarty."

* * *

><p>John walks carefully around his side of the warehouse, observing everything but seeing nothing. "Something isn't right." John ponders. It doesn't look like anyone has been in this warehouse for a long time, there is undisturbed dust all over the place, floor and walls are caked with the particles. Surely, if someone had been here they would have disturbed the dust.<p>

Five minutes later, John is about to give up searching and reconnect with Lestrade and Sherlock when something catches his eye. He bends down and looks closely at the floor. The dust has been disturbed here. I looks around and sees the only door in this corridor. John moves closer to the door, more dust unsettled. Someone has been here recently. John grabs for his gun and brings it to the front of him, gun pointed down as he moves in front of the door. He scans the outside, it seems like it might be airtight. He studies the handle, it was shiny and free of dust, someone has opened this door recently. _"Oh god you are turning into him."_ John chuckles darkly to himself.

He grips the door knob in one hand and his gun in the other. In a sudden movement, John throws the door open. A blinding white light floods the hallway and seems to envelop him as well.

The first thing he notices is the smell. It smells like blood and death. John pales at the thought. The doctor brings his hand to shield from the light, he steps into the room, his stance strong and ready for anything. The second his eyes adjust to the light, John stops dead in his tracks. In shock, John's gun and torch completely slip from his fingers, clanking nosily on the floor, echoing throughout the room announcing John's presence. John's heart starts to beat rapidly.

In front of him, sits Ray Montague, a very dead, very bloodied, Lt. Ray Montague. John stares at the lifeless body in front of him. He is bound to the chair, ropes around his waist, legs, shoulders. His shirt is off, red paints the white room, every inch of the room touched. The body is full of cuts, deep and angry, blood dripped from the multiple cuts on his body into a pool at the man's feet. The pool is a dark crimson almost reflective. John fights back the urge to vomit.

Cause Of Death: Bled out.

The thought is out before John can stop it. "Poor Bastard."

John bravely takes a closer step to the body of his former attacker. He scans the body and notices his torso. It's bare and there are no ropes across it, it is also sans any blood. John squints at the torso and notices cuts in the flesh. John's breathing hitches as he makes out the world's etched into the man's chest.

**_Happy Halloween Dr. Watson_**

The words are cut deeply onto the man's chest, they were carved into his flesh while he was still conscious because of the jagged lines of the cuts, Montague struggled. Once he was dead, they took a cloth to the cuts and wiped the blood away. They waited for him to die, they watched him die.

Bile rose in the back of John's throat. He stumbles backwards, away from the body, away from his guilt. His breathing stops, it seems he forgot how. He brings a hand up to his chest to try and remove the weight that has been placed on his lungs.

_"Calm down, Watson."_ He tells himself and tries to suck in a breath despite his panic. He forces himself to suck in air, pain erupts in his throat at the forced intake. He tries again, pain again but it is better than dying from suffocation. He can't help but stare at the letters carved into his former tormentor. _"Why are you acting like this, you seen dead people before, hell some where your friends." _John chastises himself.

_"None of them have ever been my fault."_ He argues with himself, hyperventilating now. He shuts his eyes to block out the image of his guilt in front of him. His thoughts merge together. He can't breathe, he sees the words in his mind. His ears are ringing.

He feels hands on his face suddenly, and squeezes his eyes tighter. For one irrational second he thinks that Montague has come back from the dead, or he wasn't really dead. He predicts the older man's hand on his face, kissing him again never really leaving him alone. He head spins at the thought and before he knows it, he leans his head to one side and throws up. The hands let go, and John takes his chance. He turns and runs away, away from Montague and his fears. His head swarms.

"JOHN!" He barely gets out the door before he hears Sherlock. He stops instantly. He had to get to Sherlock, the detective would protect him. Long arms wrap around John's waist from the back, a face nuzzles into John's neck. Sherlock's chest is against John's back. "John! it's okay." Sherlock says, panic sliding through his voice. John opens his eyes at the sound of his lover. He's just outside the room, back to the body. He can see the white light from the room spilling, casting shadows on the corridor they occupy.

"That's Montague." John states, waiting for a reprimand for stating the obvious. Sherlock just sighs into his neck, gently rocking them back and forward. "He died because of me." John says, after long minutes of silence, his voice dead and his eyes unfocused.

Sherlock let go of John and moves to stand in front of him. Long fingers grab his face, hesitantly, but he doesn't flinch, he knows it's just Sherlock. Sherlock wouldn't hurt him.

"John, look at me." Sherlock pleads, yanking John's chin towards him. John reluctantly focus his eyes and looks up at Sherlock's icy gray/blue eyes. He sees the warmth and worry escaping from those eyes.

His whole body relaxes, so much that he faints, his knees buckle. He isn't supposed to faint in the middle of a crime scene, that's unprofessional, that was his last thought.

* * *

><p>By the time John wakes, he instinctively tenses, he knows that he is laying down in an ambulance. He can hear and see the flashing lights and sirens that surround the warehouse. There is also a warm presence next to him. He relaxes against the body.<p>

"How long?" John asks quietly, guilt, shame, and embarrassment thick in his voice.

"Not long, ten minutes, thirty two seconds." Sherlock responds, his voice calm.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to faint." John says, ashamed.

"I suppose not, but you weren't breathing. I guess it was inevitable. I'm just lucky I was there so you didn't get another concussion." Sherlock smirks, gripping John tighter.

"What about the girl?" John asks.

"She was at the other warehouse." Sherlock states, anger or disappointment in his voice, it's hard for John to tell.

"It was a trap then." John states.

"Well done, there is hope for you yet." Sherlock snorts, his body relaxing.

"Oh please, an amateur could have picked that up, there was dust everywhere." John states.

They lay a little bit in comfortable silence. Eventually John sits up and Sherlock follows. He climbs out of the ambulance thanking the paramedic. "Why was there an ambulance here anyway?" John wonders.

"They were at both warehouses just in case." Sherlock states intertwining his fingers into John. They walk away from the crime scene without a destination.

"He's dead." John says after walking quietly together.

Sherlock stops and yanks John into a hug. "John it isn't your fault. He was a horrible man. Moriarty killed him. We talked about this remember?" Sherlock says gripping John.

"Yeah, I know." John says, and he did know. He knew that Montague molested him and shot him and broke his hand and cut him, but he didn't deserve to die like that, did he?

"Perhaps not, but he's lucky that Moriarty got to him before I did." Sherlock growls.

"Stop that. Reading my mind, it's creepy." John mock pouts and then smiles.

"I guess it was meant to be." John says finally grabbing Sherlock's hand and continue walking.

"Meant to be?" Sherlock questions.

"I just have to learn to accept it. " John smiles sadly. He knew that the death wasn't his fault but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel guilty and he will continue to feel guilty until he accepts it. How long it takes until then, he has no idea, but that's why he has Sherlock.

John felt a peck on his cheek and turns to look at Sherlock.

"Yes, that's why I'm here." Sherlock says quietly. John sighs and smiles at him, not a full smile but close.

"Quick, let's get out of here, Mycroft's coming." Sherlock says seriously, standing straight up as if listening for his brother. He suddenly grabs John's forearm and they dash into a park, running from his boyfriend's brother.

* * *

><p>I hope John's reaction wasn't to contrite.<p>

I might change it later.

Peace&Love.


	9. Rings

Hello everyone,

Sorry that this updating isn't as fast as I want it to be but I'm working on it.

Also, I love reviews and if you want me to keep writing this story I need some incentives.

Also, if anyone has any ideas or things they want to see, let me know. I'm very open to fan interaction.

Until next time.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p>Roughly three months have passed since Ray Montague was found dead in the warehouse. Life once again, returns to normal, well as normal as life can be when your partner is Sherlock Holmes.<p>

After the events of the alleyway and the threat of a cut up Montague, John now carries a knife, with the insistence of pretty much everyone, Sherlock, Lestrade, Mycroft, even Mrs. Hudson deemed the weapon necessary. John doesn't complain, it makes Sherlock happy to know that John has something to protect himself with. It's not as bulky and heavy as his Browning, but the weight is reassuring to say the least. He admits to himself he is able to do the shopping and trips on his own now with far less anxiety with the knife present in his pocket.

Not to mention the added bonus of Sherlock finally allowing John shopping trips 'unsupervised' by the detective, John will never forget the shop's employees' faces when Sherlock would accompany him. It's a surprise that the doctor is allowed to shop at that Tesco after the last time, when Sherlock thought it was okay to tell the manager details of his wife's affair. John has never see a man so red with anger.

Right now, John is alone, a rare occasion. Sherlock has become even more protective of the doctor after the night of Halloween, he accompanies him everywhere. Thankfully, Sherlock is on a case right now on the opposite side of London. John is able to go into the jewelry store without interruption.

In three days, John and Sherlock will have been together for two years, John wants it to be special. The doctor has been nervous all week, he is sure the detective has noticed his anxiety and distance but Sherlock hasn't said anything, much to the relief of John. It is supposed to be a surprise. _"Let's be real, Watson, when have you ever been able to keep a secret from Sherlock?"_ Watson thinks darkly but continues on anyway.

John even calls Harry for advice. That conversation went awkwardly well, one of her sober moments. He asked how to propose to the perfect man. Her advice was to buy a ring. John didn't really appreciate the sarcasm but then he came across a jeweler who inscribes words on wedding rings, he silently thank his sister.

So now, here he stands peering into the glass cases in front of him, trying to find the perfect ring for the perfect Consulting Detective. John stops suddenly, not from shock or from fear that he is used to, he abruptly stops because he is gazing into the glass box, he freezes in excitement and nervousness at the ring in front of him.

"Sir, Can I help you?" A young man, clad in a navy blue suit, well tailored to his body, his name tag read 'David'.

John smiles as he stands up straight, his decision made. "Yes, yes you can." John beams.

* * *

><p>The politician sits at his desk hovering impatiently over the report. The elder Holmes hates paperwork. Although, he shouldn't really complain considering most of the operations under him are so classified that the missions don't even reach paper. Mycroft sighs, nonetheless, paperwork is the only thing bureaucratic that Mycroft finds incredibly tedious, and dare he sound like his brother, <em>boring.<em>

Three knocks thump against the door of Mycroft's office. Without glancing up, a disinterested tone states, "Come in." his pen ghost over the piece of paper before he drops it and flexes his hands in relief.

Anthea strides into the office, one hand texting her blackberry and the other hand holding a file tucked tightly to her chest.

"Hello, Anthea." Mycroft says, not looking up from his paperwork. Anthea slips the file onto his desk and then proceeds to text with two hands, Mycroft nods absently his thanks. Internally scowling at another file of paperwork he would have to complete.

"Sir, You wanted updates." Anthea states purposefully.

"Ah, where is the good doctor?" Mycroft's expression and tone stay the same, but to Anthea's familiar and trained eye, she notes the slight flicker of interest in the elder Holmes, that is in the split second she glanced up from the phone in her hands.

"Anderson and Smith followed him to West of London." The PA states.

"Well, it took him long enough, he's been touchy all week. I assume he tried to shake them." Mycroft says, finally looking up from his desk.

"Yes Sir, halfway through, the doctor gave up." Anthea replies, her blackberry laying limply at her sides out of respect of her boss's attention.

"Well, I guess, I should start planning." Mycroft muses.

"The estate is pretty in April sir," Anthea remarks, her texting hands twitching without her hands busy with her phone.

"Ah, yes. Thank you Anthea." Mycroft says dismissively, his assistant's hands are immediately up and texting as she leaves the office, the rapid tapping following her out.

Much to the surprise of everyone who has ever seen the politician, everyone besides Greg and Anthea, Mycroft does feel and care.

Which is why, for the rest of the time that Mycroft does paperwork, there is a smile plastered all over his face at the happiness of his brother. The best part is, the elder brother doesn't even care if people see it.

* * *

><p>A grin curls on John's face as he exits the shop. Feelings of nervousness and anxiety forgotten as he fingers the black velvet box in his coat pocket. He walks down the street, without a care in the world, towards the nearest tube station, a proverbial spring in his step. A message vibrates in his pocket. The doctor pulls out his phone, not once stopping his pace.<p>

_Where are you? - SH_

"Shite." John mutters under his breath. He had forgotten to tell Sherlock he was going to be late. Although, honestly, he didn't think the detective would be home this early.

_Sorry, Love, forgot to tell you I was running late. -JW_

This is the moment of truth, John checks and rechecks his text for any signs that the World Only Consulting Detective could interpret something and ruin his surprise in the process. _"Paranoid."_ John chuckles to himself and sends the text. He puts the phone in his trouser pocket just as he hears the familiar hum of a car. John resists the urge to hang his head and sigh. He should have known that Mycroft would want to talk to him, especially after he tried to ditch his goons. Mycroft always enjoys a soft reprimand.

John wanted it to be a surprise, and you can't surprise someone if there is tail on him, which is why he originally decided to ditch the two men. Half-way through his mindless zig-zag of the London streets, he suddenly stopped in an alleyway. The doctor, in that second, realised two things, first, those two men, Anderson and Smith, are there to protect him, no matter how annoying they are. The second realisation is that Sherlock would be mad if he found out that John was in London unaccompanied. The past three months have been great, Moriarty seemed to fall of the face of the Earth, which irritates the Holmes brothers immensely. John on the other finds relief in the fact that Moriarty seems to be other places than London, most definitely on another continent. John sleeps easier at the thought.

However, John knows even though Moriarty isn't around, he is still out there and still has connections, and John knows first hand that Sherlock doesn't like to share.

Since Halloween, the detective's protectiveness reached new heights. Sherlock follows John everywhere, with or without John's knowledge. John lets him, if the situations were reversed, John doesn't think he would act any different. Eventually though, John could see Sherlock itching with boredom. John finally pushed Sherlock to accept cases. Without a second of doubt, once the detective was reassured multiple times that John was okay with the idea of him taking cases, the genius asked for Mycroft's help. This act, not only shows John how much Sherlock cares about him, the younger man doesn't ask his brother for help, ever. This action surprised John and the elder Holmes.

Of course, Mycroft obliged, hence, Anderson and Smith. John doesn't complain, he likes the safety net and it makes Sherlock at ease and able to work, so the doctor goes along with it. Plus half the time, John ignores them and they blend into the background. It isn't all bad.

So he allowed the tails to catch up with him because he really didn't fancy a domestic that night and it would probably add more suspicion to his surprise.

Back to the familiar black limousine next to him. John sighs and moves towards the car, which is idling silently waiting to envelop the doctor. _"Couldn't he just call like a normal person."_ John thinks. He quickly looks around at the CCTV in the area, all of the cameras are point away from his location. John relaxes, even though it was years ago, John always makes sure he knows who he is getting 'kidnapped' by. Ever since Irene Adler tricked him with a fake Anthea. He is still wary of getting into cars with strangers.

He opens the door and gets in, expecting to see Anthea sitting across from him, her fingers rapidly beating the keys of her phone. What he doesn't expect is the massive, burly man in front, early forties, tattoos covering his arm, his hair cut short. Before John can open his mouth or even think about the amount of trouble he is in, the car lurches forward and out of nowhere Burly Man flings a punch. The man's fist connects with John's face with a sickening crunch. John head reels and his lists, falling down across the seat. The punch impacts him harder than usual, suggest some form of training, military maybe. John's eyes blur for a second, but he can feel the man's hands in his trouser pockets. John doesn't try to stop him, knowing it would be useless anyway. The weight of his knife and mobile is gone and John tries to sit up. The doctor remains calm and eventually sits up, leaning his head against the back of the seat, as he tries to regain his breathing, he hears the tone of his phone being shut off. _"Great."_

"What do you want?" John asks calmly after a few minutes of regulating his own breathing. Silence responds.

"Clearly not the conversationalist." John snaps. He brings a hand up to his face, blood seeps lazily from a cut on his cheek where Burly Man's punch connected. John quickly scans for the ring, the source of the cut. A shiny gold creates a stark contrast to the man's reddening knuckles. Married, faithful, going by the cleanliness of the ring. John tenses involuntarily as he remembers his own ring in his coat pocket. He sighs internally at the thought that Sherlock may never get it.

_"Pull yourself together, you are a Captain for god's sake."_ John screams at himself. John straights and ignores the slight throbbing of his cheek, staring down the man in front of him. He scans the car, the interior is different than Mycroft's. He looks at the the door, trying to jump out would be useless, Burly Man would grab him before he even made to the handle. Not to mention it's probably locked.

John's eyes look outside, he tries to figure out where they are, he doesn't know West London as well as he should. The doctor scans for anything familiar. As the silence in the car stifles the soldier, the images and city landscapes start to diminishes. Buildings grow smaller, _"We are leaving London."_ John sighs.

The car bounces as they go over a railroad track. John hears Burly Man shuffle, the fabric of his clothes ruffling. John snaps his head, looking right at the man. Long arms reach out towards the doctor. John slides sideways across the seat instantly, avoiding the grip of the man. Burly Man quickly readjusts and John feels arms trap him. The army medic struggles against the hold and lets out a frustrated grunt and punches the man in the face. Burly Man doesn't stop, he grows angry and grabs hold of John's wrists. John struggles and fights trying to get the man off. Soon, John finds himself laying horizontal on the back seat while his wrists are being held in one of the man's huge hands.

John realises the vulnerability of his position but doesn't stop fighting. He twists and turns his body against his attackers hold. John feels a hot searing pain across his face, the doctor ceases struggling, dazed but only for a minute. He can feel the beginnings of a concussion, this year is not a good year for John's skull. He is immobilised for enough time that Burly Man is able to get a needle out of his pocket and plunge it into John's thigh. John fights in the pain of the unsuspected needle.

Burly Man loosens his grip minutely, it's all John needs. John instantly pulls his hands free with a strong tug and punches the man in the face. The attacker stumbles back into the car, unprepared for the attack. John doesn't get that easily sedated. John know he has seconds and he lets his revenge get the best of him, he flings himself at the man, punching his face like no tomorrow. The man fights and soon, gets the upper hand as the drug begins to take effect. John's punches turn slower, and the man grabs the doctor by his shirt and flips John on his back. John feels hands around his throat. His hips buck as his airway is cut off. John's eyes droop and he can feel his eyelids go heavy, he hopes from the drug and not the fact that he can't breath. Soon the hands are gone and John tries to scramble away. Racking coughs echo through the back cab of the car. Sudden fatigue and dizziness overwhelm the doctor and he flails and then falls limply onto the floor.

He remembers thinking about Sherlock as he finally passes out.

* * *

><p><em>"What part of 'don't damage him' don't you understand."<em> An Irish voice muddles through the fog of the doctor's brain, his eyes are open but blurred, all he sees is darkness and shapes.

_"Him?, do you see me."_

_"I don't care, his face looks like someone hit him with a truck."_

_"With all do respect sir, I was honestly just protecting myself. He's feisty."_ John hears a sigh and tries to move but his head only lolls to one side and a grunt escapes his mouth.

_"Yes, yes he is. Ah Johnny boy."_ John hears, affection maybe, no he is dreaming. Hands are suddenly in his hair stroking his locks lovingly. John jerks, the strength coming from nowhere, away from the touch, twisting his body, trying to stand. Arms restrain him. He tries to fight the human restraints but his struggled attempts are weak, his body won't respond through his haze.

_"Johnny, calm down."_ The hand in his hair returns.

_"How is he even awake? He should be asleep for hours."_

_"He's a soldier."_ That voice is cooing. John feels a prick and then it is darkness again.

* * *

><p>Sooo. What did you think? Reviews are awesome.<p> 


	10. You Are A Dead Man

Hello, I have two stories going at the same time, It's quite time consuming but I'm trying to keep up.

I hope you guys are liking where this is going. I know, poor John.

I hope there isn't too much h/c.

In my opinion, you can never get too much h/c.

Peace&Love.

* * *

><p>Sherlock storms up the stairs of 221B Baker Street, his steps loud and triumphant. He caught the serial killer and now he could have celebratory sex with John. He expects to jump on the doctor who is probably sitting in his chair, relaxing from a stressful day at the surgery. The detective flings the door to the sitting room open and waltzes in confidently.<p>

"John, I-" Sherlock stops when he notices the empty room. He immediately goes to the kitchen. No evidence of John since he left earlier that morning.

"John!" Sherlock yells, hoping he is in the bedroom. No sound emits from the flat. Sherlock starts to panic, he takes a deep breath and shoos the panic away._ "No need to get work up, Sherlock, stop being dull." _He chastises himself_, _whipping out his phone and rapidly dictating a text to the doctor.

_Where are you? - SH_

He waits three minutes and two seconds before he gets a response. John is early today, earlier than his average three minutes and thirty two seconds it takes him to send a text, which tells the detective that he isn't in the surgery or at least doesn't have a patient._  
><em>

_Sorry, Love, forgot to tell you I'm running late. - JW_

Sherlock stares at the text, trying to dismantle the vagueness, and also the horrible feeling in the pit of the detective's stomach.

_"Relax, he's fine."_ Sherlock tells himself over and over again, trying not to panic. Since when did the detective give in to emotion so easily? When did he let the emotions reign free?

_"Since John."_

Sherlock knows there is something wrong with the text, John didn't state a reason. No matter what, John always tells the detective everything. The text is too vague. Why is he running late? Was it a patient? The doctor always grumbles about his patients in his texts, especially if they are the excuse for being late. Sherlock dismisses a patient being the reason, the text response time is shorter than usual, meaning there is no patient. Plus, the capitalization of Love is not natural, John only does that when he is trying to hide something, Sherlock knows from experience, he figures John does it subconsciously.

_He's hiding something_. Sherlock deduces and immediately his muscles relax. John, his John isn't in immediate danger, if he was the text would have been worded different, shorthand or some other tell that Sherlock would pick up on. This text is immaculate, John took extra time in making sure the text doesn't give anything away. Thus, the doctor is just keeping a secret, a rather harmless one based on the vagueness of the text. Annoyance now replaces the panic and fear, he texts a reply back.

_What aren't you telling me? - SH_

Sherlock waits the customary three minutes and thirty two seconds that it usually takes John to answer on a normal day, nothing. Once the five minute mark hits, the detective's impatience grows significantly. He spent the next twenty three minutes sending text after text.

_Where are you? - SH_

_Are you ignoring me? - SH  
><em>

_I can ask Mycroft, you know? - SH  
><em>

_John! - SH_

_Why aren't you answering me - SH_

_John Hamish Watson, answer me! - SH_

After forty five minutes of more '_where are you_'s and twenty or so voice mails, threatening to withheld sex unless the doctor answers, Sherlock still has nothing.

Of course, Sherlock knows the phone is off, when he called the first time it went straight to voicemail and the detective ran a GPS for clarification. If John was mad at him, he would turn the phone off so he didn't feel bothered. Sherlock tries to wrack his brain for any reason for John to be mad. There hasn't been a head in the refrigerator for months and the eyeballs are out of the microwave as of last night. The detective is starting to get frustrated at the lack of communication between them. What if his phone is off because someone has him, would he turn it off if Mycroft was with him?

_"Where is John?" - SH_

The detective's sudden panic overwhelms the genius, his ingrained hesitation to ask his brother for help completely overridden. Under any other circumstances, Mycroft would be the last person Sherlock would ask for help, but that's another one of things John has changed. His willingness to set sibling rivalry aside and protect the doctor. Sherlock would do anything to protect John.

_What do you mean?_

_He should have been home twenty three minutes ago - MH_

_He's not. You knew where he was? - SH._

Sherlock waits seven and a half minutes, pacing the flat impatiently waiting for a reply.

_I'll be over in twenty minutes - MH_

_What's going on, Mycroft? - SH._

Anxiety, pure anxiety is creeping into Sherlock's heart.

_Smith and Anderson are dead, they were found in an alleyway ten minutes ago. - MH_

_Ten minutes ago and you are just getting to me? - SH._

Sherlock's heart beats fast, panic threatens to overtake his self-control, daring the detective to turn into an incoherent fool, a fool that would be no good to John. He forces himself to calm down, deep breaths.

_I just found out, I'll be over soon. Stay there. - MH._

_Is it Moriarty?. - SH_.

Sherlock grips his phone tight, his knuckles going white. He stays rooted to the spot. His mind is racing. After all this time, Moriarty can still get to his heart, his John? Why now? Where is John?

_We don't know that. - MH_

Sherlock doesn't even dignify Mycroft with a response. Of course it's Moriarty. John is careful now, but the criminal mastermind is smart, John can still be grabbed.

Questions flood his mind, he eyes blur as he lets his thoughts wander, trying to piece together some sort of idea to where John is currently. The detective didn't stop his thoughts from wrecking havoc on his emotions. The sudden burst of fear and longing almost makes the genius buckle.

He stands in the middle of the room, still texting and calling John, knowing full well he won't get a response. Nevertheless, Sherlock continues trying, in the vague hope that one call will get through, or a text message might get answered. In the meantime, he finds comfort in John's soothing voicemail voice, listing his name in John's professional voice, talking to the detective.

* * *

><p>Twenty four minutes later, Mycroft and Lestrade barge in and Sherlock is stilling standing, in the same spot, the haze of his mind forcing him paralyzed. <em>"Seriously, are these two always together when something bad happens to John?"<em> Sherlock thinks briefly before getting pulled back into the mysterious whereabouts of John and the emotions that are immobilising the detective physically.

"Sherlock!" He hears his name being called several times, the detective ignores it, his thoughts continue to preoccupy him. He dials John's number again.

The phone starts ringing on the other end. Sherlock surges out of his reverie and bolts to the computer, John's computer, sitting on the desk. Sherlock's sudden movement startles the two gentlemen, shocked silence reigns over the flat as the genius waits for the tracing program to locate John's, now operating, phone.

"Come on!" Sherlock yells impatiently at the program, two seconds away from picking the infernal machine and throwing against the wall. As the trace takes it's bloody time, Sherlock keeps dialing John's number, praying to any deity who is listening that the phone remains on.

It rings, Sherlock sighs in frustrating, hoping that John will just pick up and tell him he lost track of time or that his phone feel in the Thames and he had to retrieve it. No matter how ludicrous the story, Sherlock just wants to hear John's voice.

The tracing program beeps. Sherlock bends close to the screen and then bolts straight up in shock.

"Sherlock." Greg breaks the silence and moves towards the detective, noticing the change in the room. Bad news, Greg's hair on the back of his neck stand up, preparing.

"It can't be...Fuck!" Sherlock yells, Mycroft and Lestrade look at each other, both faintly terrified of what made Sherlock swear, a man who rarely swears.

"Sh-" Mycroft starts but is interrupted by a gust of wind flying by him. Sherlock leaves the sitting room, suddenly flying down the stairs, taking three at a time. The genius rips the front door open and jumps onto the sidewalk, his coat flailing behind him, dramatic as ever.

He hears the men calling after him, he doesn't stop, Sherlock quickly scans the street and then rushes down the pavement and into an alley. "John!" Sherlock cries dashing into the alleyway, redialing John's number. He senses Mycroft and Lestrade somewhere behind him, but doesn't stop his pace. The genius continues down the alley calling for John and listening for the ringtone. He stops abruptly and listens for John's phone, straining to hear over the loud stammer of his own heartbeat.

As he grows closer to the ringing phone, Sherlock notices with horrifying clarity that the ringtone is emitting a song. "Stayin' Alive" reverberates sharply against the brick walls as Sherlock gets closer. The detective shudders with ominous apprehension. A box, shaking slightly with the phone vibrations, resting simply on the ground parallel to the genius. Sherlock stops and bends down to the box, it's much to small for anything important, i.e. John. The detective lifts the box hesitantly and nervously. John's mobile lay, unscathed on the filthy ground.

He hears the slight huffing behind him, he ignores it and starts to reach out for John's mobile.

"Don't." A voice says grabbing the detective's wrist, preventing from touch the mobile. Sherlock glares into the DI's eyes, but doesn't fight him.

"Greg's right, there might be fingerprints." Mycroft agrees.

"I bet there isn't." Sherlock says defeated but retracts his hand, yanking it out of Greg's touch and backing away from the mobile, his face sad with desperation. Then five words jut out against the now silent alleyway.

"Moriarty is a dead man."

* * *

><p>Thirty minutes later, forensics are searching the alleyway for any evidence.<p>

Mycroft was able to talk a very stubborn Sherlock back into the flat. The detective was insistent upon everyone doing their jobs right and only ended terrorizing the entire forensics unit and the police in frustration, and nobody was getting their jobs done.

Mycroft practically had to drag Sherlock away and now the detective is pacing a hole in the floor, violently, his whole form trembling, looking down at his phone every 30 seconds.

"What do you know?" Sherlock yells at Mycroft, his tone not offensive, just frustrated and scared. The emotions are still new for Mycroft, he reels back at his younger brother's outburst involuntarily.

"Whoever did it had access to the CCTV. All the cameras were pointed away from the spot where John was taken." Mycroft explains, leaning heavily on his umbrella.

"He thought it was you." Sherlock states, wringing his phone in his hands.

"Yes." Mycroft replies, he sympathises with the youngest Holmes. If this were Greg, Mycroft would be hunting down every man in London until he got him back. Mycroft can't even imagine the pain.

"Why now? Why does Moriarty want with him now?" Sherlock asks desperately.

"We don't know that it's Moriarty." Mycroft says calmly.

"Don't be dull, who would have connections to the CCTV? Who? Except you of course." Sherlock huffs, throwing his arms in the air. Mycroft doesn't argue, he lets Sherlock pace in frustration and anger and sadness and fear. Truth is, this thing reeks of Moriarty.

"What was he doing on that side of town anyway? Why was he so far away?" Sherlock states, more out loud than directly to Mycroft. The elder Holmes knows exactly what the doctor was doing there, but he isn't going to tell Sherlock. He watches the determination in the detective's eyes, the fear. He is still getting used to the emotional outbursts of his younger brother. Who would have ever thought an invalid doctor could do so much good?

Or do so much damage.

Mycroft looks at the breaking form of his brother pacing and shaking.

"Why hasn't he called? He should have called by now?" Sherlock screams at his phone after few minutes of silence, Mycroft had moved to the settee and is watching Sherlock protectively and preventative. The last thing they all needed was a very pissed off six foot curly-haired detective going on a murdering spree throughout London looking for a certain doctor.

"He should-" Sherlock starts but his mobile's deep ringtone interrupts his own voice.

**_Blocked Number_**

Sherlock sighs, it comes out a little too breathy and icy to be a sigh of relief. He stops pacing, but the tension remains in his lanky form, proof of his building anxiety. Sherlock answers the phone and brings it slowly to his ear.

"I swear to god you are a dead man." The detective's voice is cold and firm and his face calculating and hard with disgust and determination, his lips curling up in a snarl.

"Sh-Sherlock." Sherlock's face softens immediately, and the world around him blurs together. Nothing in the room catches his attention, he only listen to John and John is the only thing in his mind.

"John." Mycroft heart breaks as his younger brother says those four letters.

"It's alright, I'm alright, I love you." Sherlock's eyes start to turn red and wet with tears. The doctor sounds strained and in pain. Sherlock opens his mouth to response but the breaths of John quiets him. "Listen, we passed some train tracks-" John's rambles and then his voice is cut off, becoming muffled and far away. He hears a grunt and the sickeningly familiar sound of fist connecting with flesh.

"John!" Sherlock calls into the phone, knuckles white and shaking as he grips the phone tighter.

"I told him." A sing song voice escapes the phone, filling up 221B Baker Street with an uncomfortable stiffness.

"Moriarty." Sherlock's voice is flat, conveying no emotion whatsoever.

"Oh. I don't get to hear your emotion. I'm kind of disappointed in you sexy." The Dublin accented man remarks, his tone in a mock sadness.

"I'm going to have so much fun watching you die." The detective utters cleanly through gritted teeth.

"Dull." Moriarty simply responds.

"Where is he?" Sherlock growls.

"Well, If I tell you, that wouldn't be fun. Besides, you two never thanked me for what I did to Lt. Montague. Seb wasn't found of the decision but I felt, the Lt. went a little too far. I'm the only one allowed to touch Johnny boy." Moriarty's sing song voice rambles, "And I'm sure Johnny will think of a way to thank me, while we wait for you to come."

"If you touch him, I swear..." Sherlock commands.

"Touchy, Touchy." Moriarty says, his lips making a faint 'tsking' sound.

Sherlock snarls into the phone, his patience wearing thin.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry to cut this short but Johnny is bleeding all over the floor and it's quite the mess. Ciao." Moriarty calls, without a care in the world.

"Moriarty!" Sherlock calls, but the phone is already dead.

Slowly, the detective brings the phone done and looks at it, the anger boiling inside of him.

_"John."_

* * *

><p>If steam could literally come out of people's ears, the detective would have a never ending supply bursting from his ear drums. Sherlock is fuming. His hands are clenched but hang tense at his sides. Anger ripples off him dangerously. His eyes are wide once the phone call ends. His body shakes and his arms tremble.<p>

Mycroft knows it is going to happen, so when the loud shattering sound of Sherlock's phone hitting the adjacent wall echoes through the flat, the elder Holmes doesn't flinch. Mycroft sits, staring at the fierce man in front of him, a little shocked. Mycroft suddenly feels a wave of guilt, guilty that he couldn't protect the doctor and in turn protect his own brother.

The politician's expression stays neutral of course, he knows his eyes are giving his emotions away but Sherlock is too preoccupied with his own confusing emotions to look at his brother.

"I...John." Sherlock says through gritted teeth, his stance intense. Abruptly, Sherlock lets out a howl and falls to the ground unceremoniously. Mycroft doesn't hesitate, he is at his brother's side in an instant, scooping the younger Holmes up in his arms. Yells and sobs escaping the genius, the tears and fear spill out of Sherlock rapidly and shamelessly.

For the first time in both the Holmes brothers' lives, an utter and devastating hopelessness swipes over the two men in the middle of the sitting room, holding onto each in their pain.

* * *

><p><em>Thoughts?<em>

_Question. Should John randomly show up at 221b Baker Street bloody and injured or should Sherlock find him in a warehouse or something._


	11. 6 Days, 4 hours and 43 minutes

I've made a decision on how John is going to return.

Mystrade warning just so you know. I know some people aren't necessarily happy with them, but it's brief and only a surface ship.

But I won't tell you yet, by the end of the chapter I'm sure you will know. I'm rather obvious.

Reviews are lovely.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p>Mycroft could count on one hand how many times he has seen his brother pass out. He's seen his brother pass out from drugs or exhaustion or even lack of food. Never, in the detective's life, has the elder Holmes witnessed Sherlock Holmes pass out from complete and utter emotional exhaustion. The young genius, a self proclaimed sociopath now lays limp in the politician's arms.<p>

With a little bit of a struggle, Mycroft heaves and positions the young man onto the sofa, the detective's long legs sprawled across the length and his hands resting peacefully on his stomach. Just as Mycroft is laying Sherlock's head slowly onto the couch, Lestrade walks in quietly.

"What happened to him?" The DI asks, his voice laced with worry and exhaustion.

"Nothing, Love." Mycrofts answers sweetly brushing Sherlock's curls out of his sleeping face. Greg, despite the situation feels his ears twinge pink at the endearment, blushing like a bloody schoolgirl, but Lestrade couldn't help, that's what Mycroft does to him. "He just passed out." Mycroft finishes looking up, he, of course, notices the slight blush instantly and beams at Greg, who returns a sheepish grin. Greg's got it bad.

"What's that?" Mycroft asks moving closer to his boyfriend, wrapping an arm around the DI's waist.

The situation makes mortality real for the politician, he feels the need to touch the older man in front of him, as reassurance that the DI is still there, that he hasn't been taken. Mycroft muses minutely about how this situation could be reversed. Mycroft has enemies, they could be looking for Greg instead of the doctor. The elder Holmes shudders involuntarily and wraps a hand around the plastic bag that Greg is holding, in an effort to mask his body's weakness. Greg leans into the touch, ignoring the shudder. He just revels in the warmth of the elder Holmes's touch.

Greg looks down at the evidence bag.

"It's a coat, it's John's coat." Greg states simply, turning the bag over nervously. Mycroft's eyes light up.

"Greg, check the pockets." Mycroft's urgency alarms the DI but he quickly opens up the bag.

"Why?" Lestrade asks pulling out the coat, glad that he kept his latex gloves on. Mycroft doesn't answer, his eyes roaming the coat stiffly, a sense of hope in his eyes. Greg wonders at Mycroft's expression as he gets the whole coat out and begins searching the pockets. Thirty seconds later, his hand grips something. Greg frowns deeply, his fingers wrap around a box, a rounded square box. The DI pulls out the velvet box and grimaces in shock. Mycroft lets out a sigh of relief and tightens his grip around the DI.

"Is this what-" Greg stammers, holding the box up to the light, waiting for it to reveal it's secrets.

"Yes." Mycroft answers, leaning his head onto Greg's shoulder.

"How did you know? How did you know it was in the coat." Lestrade asking gaping at the tiny box in his hands.

"I didn't, I hoped it was. I hope that bastard didn't have it." Mycroft replies, disgust in his voice when talking about the criminal mastermind, the man who is torturing the doctor, the man who is destroying his younger brother.

"He just got it today. He was going to ask him over their anniversary dinner." Mycroft says sadly.

"He told you?" Greg asks incredulous, not mad just curious that the doctor would share that information with his future brother-in-law.

"No, I figured it out. I'm a Holmes." Mycrofts remarks, smiling into Greg's shoulder. "He just picked it out today."

"That's why he was in West London." Greg states, turning the box over and over in his hand. His curiosity invades his mind for a minute, not curiosity for what's in the box, no, Greg is curious about the fact that holds no desired to open the box, any human would have opened it by now. This is something that needs to be shared between Sherlock and John.

A noise pulls the gentlemen out of their silent trance. Sherlock is standing, already half way between them and the settee he just left, his mouth half open, probably ready to scold his older brother about letting him sleep, no such words come. The detective's eyes are bloodshot, his face is gaunt but dry.

He doesn't look at the two men, Sherlock's eyes are focused and staring at the box in Greg's hand.

The genius's mind stops, literally stops, if he wasn't so distracted by the object in the DI's hand, Sherlock would have been alarmed by the cease of thought. If he was thinking, he would have been yelling at Mycroft for letting him sleep or ranting about the possibility of where John is in relation to the vacated warehouses around London. The detective would have paced violently across the flat, destroying things in his anger, he would be doing all of this if his brain was actually computing.

Instead, the detective is frozen in the middle of his sitting room, his face blank like all the idiots he points out on a daily basis. For a second, his eyes glance away from the box, suddenly angry. How dare he feel? Why must he feel? Why does it hurt so much? Maybe this was a mistake?

Then the genius finds the rounded square velvet box and all doubts vanish, his anger dissipates instantly. It's not a mistake, he loves John, flashes of memories of the two of them together and happy streak through Sherlock's mind. He inches towards Greg, his hand reaching out for the box. The DI hands over the box wordlessly and Sherlock's fingers wrap around the soft material. The detective turns and stalks over to the window, gripping the box tightly and staring out onto the police covered street.

* * *

><p>Mycroft's head bolts up straight at the sight of his younger brother standing in front of him. His face is completely blank. Mycroft frowns for a fraction of a second and watches the genius's eyes stare at the box. The politician notices Sherlock's hands trembling. For a minute, the three of them stand there, silence echoing the flat. Mycroft notices a flash of anger appear in the genius's eyes for a split second. The anger is gone when Mycroft blinks and he watches Sherlock's thin fingers reach out for the box.<p>

Greg hands it over without hesitation, extending his arm gently and passing the infamous box over. The two men watch as Sherlock walks to the window, shaking slightly and staring out into street, turning the jeweler's box over and over in his hand.

Mycroft and Greg exchange looks of worry.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft prods, unsure of how to proceed with the alien formerly known as his brother.

"Hmm." Sherlock hums distantly, his eyes moderately unfocused. Mycroft crosses the room and stands behind the younger man.

"We found John's coat." Greg says softly. The sudden movement startles Greg, Mycroft sees it coming. Sherlock snaps and twists his body and is instantly in front of the DI. A look of sheer determination fixates on the detective. He grabs hold of the coat without protest from Lestrade who is stunned by the scene.

"I need to see where the coat was found." Sherlock's voice is raspy and hoarse but full of command, already half way down the stairs. Greg nods and follows him quickly.

Sherlock bustles onto the street and towards the alleyway, his hand stays wrapped firmly around the box the entire time.

_"John."_

* * *

><p>Sherlock lays in bed, their bed. His fingers are stroking the box absentmindedly, his hands laying on his stomach. He hasn't opened the box and he doesn't plan on it. John and John alone is responsible for opening the object.<p>

Six days, four hours and forty three minutes.

That's how long it's been since Sherlock has heard John's voice, that's how long it has been since Moriarty has contacted him.

The last six days have blurred together for Sherlock. He hasn't slept, he has barely eaten. It wasn't until Mycroft threatened to strap him to a bed and force an IV on him that he agree to a meal. The food was bland and unappealing, nothing like John's cooking.

"John." Sherlock sighs, rolling onto his side. He should be out there looking, but Mycroft's threat echoes in his mind. The politician along with back up from Greg and half of the Scotland Yard forced Sherlock back to the flat for sleep. Sherlock meant to fight, he meant to rant and rave and yell at everyone because they were being dull and wasting time and not focusing on finding John.

His body, his transport had other ideas. Mycroft clapped a hand onto Sherlock's shoulders and all the fight left the detective. He almost collapsed from exhaustion right there. He didn't argue, the logical part of him knew that he couldn't find John if he collapsed from fatigue and exhaustion.

He allowed Mycroft to drive him back to 221B Baker Street, he stared out the window the entire time, his hand clasped around the box like Sherlock's own security blanket.

Sherlock now lays in bed, sleep eluding him, he is going over Montague's death in his head, trying to find any piece of evidence that would lead the detective to John's whereabouts.

_"Why mention his death if there isn't a clue to where you are?"_ Sherlock had yelled out loud to the empty morgue, throwing a microscope to the floor in anger. That was two days ago, Sherlock went through Montague's murder with a fine toothbrush, spending four days in the morgue and found nothing new.

Eventually, Molly tattled to Greg who in turn told Mycroft, next thing Sherlock knows, two men are escorting the struggling detective out of the lab and into the car of a very pissed off Mycroft. The politician made him eat and told him to go home and sleep. Of course, he went to the flat, even had some toast and tea but he didn't stop, he continued his research.

The frustration is destroying him, his emotions are out of control, he yells at everyone, no matter what information they bring. People are avoiding him, everyone except Molly, Greg and Mycroft, who are somewhat used to a stroppy detective. His attitude has never been this bad, Sherlock would give anything to just end the stupid game. He just wants John.

Sherlock is tired, not hopeless or unmotivated but tired, tired of the pain, tired of the guilt, tired of not being able to be next to John every night.

The genius clutches the box against his chest and nuzzles into John's pillow. He inhales his scent. Silent tears fall from his face, he is now, no stranger to the tears. He feels angry and weak with himself. He wishes John is there to make it better, to make the emotional turmoil go away.

Sherlock can't help but blame John for his emotional responses. If John never existed he wouldn't be in this position, this hurt. He wouldn't be so afraid of losing someone.

_"Shut Up, Holmes. You are strong and John practically saved you life and showed you how to be happy. He doesn't deserve this doubt, and neither do you. Get over yourself."_ Sherlock chastises himself. A single sob escape the detective as his fears overcome him.

Six days and the genius is no closer to finding the doctor, six days of crying and yelling, of fear and longing. _"I will find John. I will find him and then I will kill Moriarty."_ Sherlock thinks to himself, inhaling John's pillow again and closing his eyes.

Sometime later, Sherlock passes out from crying and from the general lack of sleep.

He doesn't even stir when a blond enters his room and lays down next to him on the bed.

* * *

><p>Mycroft sits with his laptop on his knees, it's two a.m. and he is trying to stop North Korea from blowing up the world, over email. Greg lays next to him on the couch, his head resting against his thigh, the DI's body curled into himself. Mycroft gets distracted by a sudden exhale of air from the DI and looks down. The elder Holmes smiles at the pleasant face of Greg and doesn't even try to stop himself when he puts a hand on the man's hair, gently stroking.<p>

Mycroft sits like this for a few minutes, contemplating waking him up and moving both of them to the bedroom for long needed rest.

Before he can execute his plan, he gets a call. He quickly answers the phone, so the ringtone does not wake Lestrade.

"Sir." Anthea starts over the phone.

"Yes Anthea." Mycroft says, rubbing his hand in his face, exhaustion practically threatening to take over.

"It's Baker Street sir, surveillance just contacted me saying someone had enter the flat ten minutes ago." Any resemblance of tiredness is immediately gone with Anthea's sentence.

"Dangerous?" Mycroft asks, trying to remain calm, and if Anthea could see his face, she would notice how much the politician is failing at remaining calm.

"Heat sensors indicate two figures lying in Sherlock's bedroom." Anthea states simply.

"Why hasn't anyone gone in?" Mycroft puts his laptop on the table next to him and leans forward gently.

"Last time they went in sir, Sherlock tried to kill them...with explosives. They are a bit apprehensive." It was Anthea's turn to try and remain calm. She has seen her boss yell and she does not want to be on the wrong end of the hailstorm known as Mycroft Holmes.

"MI5 trained operatives are scared to enter my brother's flat. You've got to be kidding me?" With that Lestrade stirred awake, rubbing his eyes and looking up at the Elder Holmes confused, Mycroft instantly catalogs the adorable expression for a later date. Lestrade sits up upon seeing Mycroft's worried and seething face. He listens intently to the conversation, sensing something is very wrong.

"Sir, intel was just forwarded, there is a 75% possibility that the man is the doctor." Mycroft's heart drops and looks at Greg who is already up finding his shoes and grabbing Mycroft's coat.

"We are on our way. Be ready to dispatch an ambulance. I need to call my brother." Mycroft says follow Greg out the door.

"The car is already ready." Anthea hangs up and Mycroft and Lestrade are out the door in a gust of air.

* * *

><p>Thoughts?<p>

Reviews are welcome.


	12. Catepillars

Another short one, but I'll update soon after it with an exceptionally long chapter for your viewing pleasure

Also, I hope this idea isn't too far fetched, I tried writing Sherlock finding John in a warehouse but it wasn't working. This flowed much easier for me.

Let me know what you guys think.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p>Two hours after he finally succumbed to sleep, Sherlock jolts into consciousness. He is vaguely aware of the body next to him. At first, the detective thinks he is imagining the warmth there, blaming it on the exhaustion. The detective thinks that the lack of sleep and general longing for the doctor is making him hallucinate to cope with the trauma. He resists the urge to reach out. He is scared, he knows it isn't real, but for a second he hopes and then he becomes scared of his own hopefulness. Instead, the genius flexes his hand and lays it limply on the bed between himself and the hallucination. His other hand holding onto the box still laying on his stomach.<p>

His empty hand lands in something sticky and wet.

"What the hell?" Sherlock exasperates, the mysterious wetness sobering up his sleepiness. He brings the wet hand up to his eyes.

Crimson, glowing and shimmering in the sparse moonlight of the bedroom stares back at him. Sherlock sits up abruptly at the sight, confusion masking his features. Slowly, as if unsure of what he expects to see, he turns his head towards the warmth. He fears the extreme, he pushes out his fear and apprehension and hurriedly finds the body laying next to him. Sherlock immediately scans the figure alongside him. The smaller man is curled on his side, unconscious. Of course, Sherlock recognises him immediately.

"John!" Sherlock screams, moving very rapidly, he jumps onto the body. He wonders briefly if it's a dream, Sherlock leans down, nuzzling his face into John's neck, inhaling the doctor immodestly, his nostril filling with happiness at John's unique smell.

Sherlock laughs hysterically, it's not a dream, the detective is never able to get John's real smell right in his dreams. As Sherlock inhales greedily, he decides that this is reality John, definite real John.

The stickiness of Sherlock's fingers break him out of his thoughts and he immediately remembers the blood.

"JOHN!" Sherlock screams. Blood. John. He grabs the doctor's face and shifts the doctor's body onto his back. John grunts in response.

"JOHN!" Sherlock's mobile starts ringing and Sherlock snatches it scanning the older man's body. The sight of the broken doctor legitimately scares the detective.

John's face is swollen and in various stages of healing. Bruises and cuts litter John's face and neck. Sherlock notices a bite mark just under the collar of John's shirt and resists the bile rising in his throat. John is wearing the same jumper he was wearing the day he was taken. It's ripped to shreds, barely hanging on the doctor gaunt figure, and full of blood stains. John looks broken and smaller than usual. He face is contorted in pain, even in his unconsciousness. Through the ripped jumper, Sherlock sees the scars of Montague's cuts along with new shallow ones. Hundreds of them, all plastered over the bare torso. John lays limp beneath him as he answers the call.

"MYCROFT!" Sherlock yells into the phone, without looking to see who it is. The body beneath the detective starts to stir.

"JOHN! JOHN!" Sherlock calls, grabbing the older man's face. "WAKE UP YOU SELFISH BASTARD!"

A grunt escapes the army doctor's lips and his head moves slightly to one side.

_"She was right, it's John. Medics to Baker Street now."_ He hears Mycroft's vague directions over the phone.

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouts again, smashing his mobile between his ear and shoulder and cupping John's face with his now bloodied hands.

John's eyelids flutter and his head moves side to side, more rapidly.

"John! Wake up." Sherlock calls, the doctor opens his eyes, they are blurred and dilated. Sherlock holds John's face tighter moving his head, forcing the doctor to look into his eyes.

"That's the second time you've called me a selfish bastard." John snarks, trying to laugh but coughs, horrid heart clenching coughs. He smiles weakly at the detective, blood dripping down his face.

Sherlock can't help but grin back.

"Even with caterpillars in your teeth, your smile is beautiful." John mumbles, almost incoherently, the detective's smile drops instantaneously.

"Caterpillars?" Sherlock asks stun at the confession thinking, hoping he imagined it. John just nods, moving his head absentmindedly, mumbling nonsense.

"Caterpillars." Mycroft obviously hears John's rambles, not imagined.

"The other you, he was really mean, his smile was wrong, he had bats in his teeth." John says, writhing weakly with the unpleasant memory. Sherlock pushes up John's sleeves and sees the bleeding track marks.

"Oh my god." Sherlock exclaims.

"What? What happened?" Mycroft's frantic voice rings in the detective's ear.

"Track marks." Sherlock gulps. "A lot of them, Mycroft." Sherlock cries into the phone. The sheer number of marks stun the detective, the former addict who has seen his fair share of track marks. The needle punctures stand out against the pale skin of the ex-soldier. Sherlock runs a thumb over the bleeding and bruised marks, tears threatening to spill, John flinches at the contact and weakly struggles to get away. Sherlock looks up at the doctor and notices tears in his eyes.

"No...please...needle... don't like it...no clowns..." John says writhing beneath the detective.

"Shh...John it's okay. Never again." Sherlock promises, bringing a hand up to John's face, turning the doctor's chin forcing John's eyes to look into the detective's eyes. John stares at Sherlock and then smiles again, his body instantly calming, like he just remembered that Sherlock is there.

John mumbles words disjointedly and Sherlock listens carefully, the words, however, are unreadable.

"Mycroft." Sherlock says exasperated, looking at the small, bleeding man before him.

"I know, I know, ambulance is on it's way, we are just around the corner." Mycroft tries to sound comforting but his panic is anything but soothing.

John's smile twists into an expression of pain suddenly and the doctor's back arches and his body tenses. He groans and gasps in pain.

"John, John what hurts?" Sherlock panics.

"Stomach, ahhh, everything, head, it all hurts." John pants between gritted teeth, his hands gripping the sheets tightly.

"Sh. It's okay. It's going to be okay, I'm going to help you." Sherlock pleads.

Voices and steps erupt in the flat. Sherlock briefly looks up as Mycroft and Greg burst into the bedroom.

Sherlock stays straddling the doctor, the very bloody doctor. John is mumbling and grunting in pain. The soldier moves his head with effort towards the new noises, and smiles through his pain. The obvious drugs messing with John.

"Hi." John giggles at the newcomers, as Sherlock lifts up John's jumper. He holds back a gasp at the deep gash across John's stomach, John tries feebly to push his jumper down, mumbling words about inappropriate behavior in front of Mycroft. Mycroft is too shocked by the scene in front of him to comment at John's shyness. Sherlock ignores his attempts and shoos away the doctor's hands, he stares at the knife wound clinically. The cut deeper than the other cuts that litter John's body but still manageable, not life threatening. Sherlock sighs in relief.

Greg appears at Sherlock's side with a towel in his hand, pushing it onto John's stomach. John gasps at the sudden pressure and Sherlock runs his hand across the doctor's bruised cheek, soothing him.

Mycroft walks closer to the injured man, John just stares back.

"You know..." John lets out a gasp of pain. "You should...really get...that snake...on your nose...looked at.." John says gasping in between the phrases, keeping his eye focused on Mycroft the entire time, occasionally his eyes would glance to his nose and then back to his eyes. Mycroft grimaces and John giggles.

"My god, what did they drug him with?" Mycroft asks from a distance.

"I don't know." Sherlock says incredulously, "I don't know." The younger Holmes' broken voice ringing through the bedroom.

* * *

><p>Two minutes later, the bedroom is full of paramedic and police officers.<p>

Mycroft has moved down to talk to Mrs. Hudson, alerting her of the situation. Greg stands next to Sherlock while the paramedics work on stabilizing John. The situation disturbingly and horrifyingly familiar.

"No." John's voice calls out hoarsely, when one of the paramedics is trying to put an IV in John's hand.

"I don't w-want it." John fights against the needle, his back arching and his limbs moving about, he does all of this with more strength than he should have or should be using. Suddenly, as if the trauma and the pain is too much, John vomits over the side of the bed.

Sherlock rushes over and onto the head of the bed, leaning against the headboard, he cradles John's head in his lap, using his shirt to wipe up the little vomit left on the doctor's mouth.

"Sh.. John. Calm down. It's okay." Sherlock soothes, running a hand through the struggling doctor's hair, while John repeats "I'm sorry," over and over again.

"Sh-Sherlock." John sobs. "I'm sorry, I don't want the needle, please tell the monkeys no." John begs, fighting the paramedics.

"I know, I know, love. They are trying to help. They are good. Do you trust me?" Sherlock asks looking into John's eyes.

"Of course." The doctor replies automatically, "But, if I go to sleep now, you won't be here when I wake up." John mumbles miserably. "Or worse you'll be meaner."

Sherlock fights back sobs of his own as he pets John's hair. "John, I will be here. I promise." Sherlock states firmly, "I won't be mean. I could never been mean to you." Sherlock lets a single tear fall down his face.

John relaxes slightly, but his hands are still clenched, making it impossible to attach an IV to the doctor's hand

"John. It's just an IV. It will help you feel better. I love you, I promise." Sherlock soothes, trying to appeal to John's doctor training. John nods slowly not looking away from Sherlock.

"I love you too." John sobs quietly. Sherlock looks quickly at the medic and nods once before turning back to John's face. John winces when the IV goes in and Sherlock can see him resisting the urge to flail and run away.

"Good. John. It's okay, I will not let them hurt you. We are going to the A&E," Sherlock talks, comforting John. John just nods and stares at detective who keeps talking, trying to keep the doctor awake as long as possible.

The moment seems calm, Sherlock almost sighs in relief, reveling in the very alive body before him. He almost sighs in solace. The detective might have actually sighed in that moment if, John, the only man Sherlock will ever love and the only man he would kill for, the only man Sherlock has ever felt emotionally attached to, hadn't shut his eyes suddenly, stopped breathing and gone completely limp in the genius's arms.


	13. I Will Never Let You Go John Watson

Oh my lovelies, sorry for the delay. I've been uber busy.

Hopefully the updates will be coming fast.

Reviews are welcome.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p>Sherlock lays next to John on the decently sized hospital bed. His arms are wrapped tightly around the unconscious, trembling, drug withdrawing doctor.<p>

John passed out ten minutes ago from pure exhaustion, the drugs in his system leaving slowly and painfully. Sherlock's presence is the only thing keeping the doctor calm.

The room is dark and quiet, a whole day has passed since John fell, literally, into Sherlock's life again.

The past day flew by in a blur.

He remembers sitting in the waiting room anxiously, the white is the same, the stroppy nurses are the same, the bustle of the hospital is the same, the damn chairs are still hard and uncomfortable, still the same.

All of it, annoyingly, painstakingly familiar and dull.

Sherlock barely remembers Greg sitting next to him the whole time. He didn't look at the inspector the entire time, Sherlock was immersed in his own grief.

Mycroft had been in and out of the waiting room multiple times, checking with Greg, trying to talk to Sherlock. The detective barely acknowledging his brother, barely noticing when Mycroft was there and when he wasn't.

During the first hour of the visit, Sherlock had managed to make three separate nurses cry, making all waiting families flee from the waiting room in fear and a doctor threw him out...twice. With a call from Mycroft, Sherlock was let back in both times.

After the second time Sherlock was let back into the hospital, he quieted down verbally. His frustrations and anger showed through his violent pacing, occasionally throwing his arms up in turmoil. Nurses would no longer approach him and Sherlock didn't go hunting.

Finally, Mycroft strolled into the waiting room, smiling briefly at Greg before standing right in front of Sherlock, forcing the man to stop his ferocious pacing. The detective had snarled, looking directly into his brother's face, already getting ramped up to start a fight with the elder Holmes. Mycroft simply grabbed the genius's hand, Sherlock's other hand instinctively grabbing Mycroft's wrist, the detective felt his brother deposit a small object into Sherlock's palm.

"You forgot this." Mycroft had whispered in his brother's ear. Sherlock looked down and then back at Mycroft, loosening his grip on the politician's wrist but letting his fingertips linger there.

Sherlock feels a sudden urge to sit down. He released Mycroft who gently helped Sherlock slowly slide into one of the plastic chairs, and that's where Sherlock stayed for the next ten hours.

Now, laying on the bed next to John, Sherlock recognizes the symptoms of shock he was exhibiting, but at the time he had two things on his mind; guilt and John. Both would take turns in the forefront of him mind, before mixing together and than switching. It was a delicate thought process that ravished Sherlock's mind for ten hours.

Sherlock never felt guilt before John, it never even occurred to him that he should feel guilty. Now with all of the recent hospitals visits and John getting hurt so much, Sherlock hates the monster that holds his brain hostage and tells him how to feel. He hates how the guilt can make him think stupid things. Thoughts like making Mycroft take John away for the doctor's protection. Or thoughts of breaking up with John and moving out of the country to hunt down Moriarty. He hates how the green eyed snarling guilty monster is destroying and manipulating Sherlock's thoughts and construing his relationship.

He knows it's his fault that John is in the hospital once again. He knows he what he needs to do, send John away to protect him from Moriarty.

Sherlock knows all of this but then he sees John in his mind and he sees the smiles and the touches. He feels his heart grow with love and adoration, so much that silent tears fall, unnoticed by everyone.

He can't, he can't let John go.

He is too selfish, he curses himself at his own selfishness, John would be safe, if he was away and protected.

Sherlock makes his decision and holds John tighter, crying in the man's blond hair.

* * *

><p>John awakes slowly. His body aches and his stomach feels empty and nauseous. John tries to shift but stops at the aches and pains that send shooting pains throughout his body. John catalogs his symptoms, sweating, nausea, difficulty breathing, tremors, and muscle tension.<p>

Flu? Hands not sweaty enough, so far no actual vomiting.

Drug Withdrawal? John scoffs at himself. "_Yeah right, Watson, You don't take drugs."_

John goes through the possible causes and each time drug withdrawal stays at the top of his list.

_"When did I take drugs then?"_ John muses to himself.

John starts to take in the world around him, he feels warmth next to him. He subconsciously scoots closer to the figure next to him slowly and meticulously, the scent of Sherlock filling his nostrils as he snuggles into the detective's chest.

John relaxes and lets his mind wander again. He opens his eyes an scans the vacant and moonlit hospital room. Soft beeps and hums of machines enter in John's inventory of the room.

_"Why Am I in a hospital?"_

Drug withdraw, hospital, Sherlock gripping tight. _"What the hell happened?"_

John wracks his brain for any clues. He tries to bring his hand to his face but instantly decides against it when his shoulder aches painfully.

_"Think, Watson, What do you remember?"_

John remembers leaving the surgery, heading towards the tube station, he was going somewhere specific he remembers feeling nervous. How many days ago was that? Where was he going? What happened? John's panicked thoughts threaten his nausea so he pushes back his torturing thoughts and focuses on not throwing up. After a few minutes of deep breathing, John relaxes, his nausea almost gone.

He thinks again, this time slightly detached and clinical to prevent his emotions from have free reign on him. He listens to the snores of the detective and matching his own breathing and heartbeat to the man next to him.

John looks into the ragged form of his partner next to him, his face is gaunt and deep purple rings are bruised under his eyes. John regards the detective, moving around his body looking for clues to why he is in the hospital. Maybe they got into a fight with a suspect and John got a concussion, that would explain the slight amnesia.

He finds no injuries but notices Sherlock's death grip on an object in his hand. John rubs circles over the top of Sherlock's hand, the hand relaxes automatically and the object falls from his grip. John sees the rounded velvet box. He picks it up in his hand, turning it over. He opens the box and gasps, shutting it quickly after.

Images flow through John without warning. John's breathing becomes erratic as he gets lost in the flashbacks.

He remembers picking out the rings. He remembers getting into the car that he thought was Mycrofts. He remembers fighting and getting drugged.

John remembers Moriarty.

John shudders and starts shaking violently.

_"Hello Johnny boy. Long time no see. We are going to have a lot of fun." John can feel Moriarty's hot breath against his ear. John closes his eyes tightly. His breathing hitching and shallowing. _

"John. What's wrong?" John vaguely hears the detective.

_ "Come on Johnny Boy, don't be like that. You know you want it." Moriarty advances on John with a needle in his hand. _

_"No thank you, I'd rather not." John bites back with confidence but a weak voice. Sweat is pooling on his ripped up jumper. _

_"You know what that means." Moriarty sighs, snapping his fingers. John struggles uselessly against his restraints. The blue eyed man comes into the room and straddles John._

"Nooo." John screams in reality and in the flashback.

"John. John." Sherlock yells, shaking John. John opens his eyes reluctantly. Sherlock's gray orbs look back at him. John relaxes instantly, looking right into Sherlock.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock says, his voice laced with panic. John doesn't answer, he brings up his hands, ignoring the aches and pain and wraps them around the detective, pulling Sherlock onto him. John lets a few tears escape.

"John. shh. John it's okay. I'm here, you are safe." Sherlock soothes, wrapping his own arms around the doctor.

"I know. I missed you." John states, squeezing the detective once before relaxing into the embrace.

"I love you. I love you so much." Sherlock says, planting kisses on the doctor's forehead and face.

John's tears still fall. "I love you too."

"I thought I was never going to see you again." John remarks sadly.

"Shhhhh...I'm here now. We are together. I love you." Sherlock says, his own tears threatening to spill.

John grips for the box, "I don't want to waste another minute not tied to you in every way." John says quietly, sadly but intensely. He puts the box on his chest as Sherlock lays on his side, looking into John's eyes. "Will you marry me?" John asks sheepishly.

"Of course." Sherlock answers, planting a deep kiss onto John. Desperation, longing, love and need mold the kiss into so much more. John lets Sherlock trace his lower lip and nibble at it. John parts his lips and Sherlock takes the invitation, his tongue explores the doctor's sucking on John's tongues.

Sherlock breaks the kiss gasping for breath, "You silly man. You know I thought I was doing something wrong. I even removed the eyeballs because I didn't want to upset you further." Sherlock states, chuckling. John returns a smile and chuckles too, he opens the box and pulls out Sherlock's ring.

Sherlock takes the ring wordlessly and reads the inscription. "Forever yours, John Watson." Sherlock's heart melts and pulls the doctor in for another long kiss, neither of them noticing when Greg opened the door and then walks back out.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's ring shines brilliantly in the sunlight. It's minimalistic design stuns the detective. He knew what the box meant, of course he knew. Those six days clutching the box like a life line behind him but he knew that John had intended to propose. Thinking about being proposed to and actually getting proposed to are two very different things, not to mention that he didn't even look inside to see the rings.<p>

The detective is impressed at John's taste at the simple band with three diamonds in it. John's ring is matching but has no inscription. Sherlock intends to change this, once he figures out what he wants on it.

The detective walks into the hospital whistling, John is getting discharged today, and Sherlock went home to fetch clothes.

Sherlock hears the yelling before he even got half-way down the hallway. Sherlock breaks into a run, passing the guards stationed at John's door and pushes it open.

Mycroft is the first one he sees when he enters the room. The older man is swinging his umbrella mindlessly, his face neutral. It is John's face that is red with anger and frustration.

"Ah, brother, you are twenty minutes early." Mycroft states simply, Sherlock can see the resignation underneath.

"You were going to take him away, without even letting me say goodbye." Sherlock states, actually stunned at the audacity of his brother.

"It's for the best brother." Mycroft states simply. Sherlock crosses the room to John and gently puts a hand around his waist, protectively and reassuringly. John doesn't tear his eyes off of Mycroft.

"John. Go and get changed." John stares at the detective and then at the older Holmes before snatching the bag and slamming the bathroom door shut loudly.

"You know it's for the best." Mycroft hisses.

"I can't Mycroft." Sherlock says.

"He will be safer away from you." The elder Holmes remarks.

"I know." Sherlock sighs, planting himself huffily into the chair beside John's bed.

"Then what's the problem?" The politician questions.

"I just can't." Sherlock admits weakly.

"This is for his safety, Sherlock. You have to send him away, now is not the time to be egocentric." Mycroft tone angry, but his voice quiet, neutral.

"I know." Sherlock states, his head falling into his hands, his thoughts in turmoil.

A door slams, an even angrier John storms out of the bathroom, clad in his usual adorable jumper and jeans.

"Do I ever get a say with you two?" John booms, staring daggers at both brothers.

"John. This is for your own good. We have to split you two up and move you." Mycroft states, turning to the doctor, using a 'this is non-negotiable' voice.

"No. I refuse. This is my life. I'm not having some git like Moriarty make me move out of my own flat, let alone own city, and tear him away from my fiance." John yells. "Leave Mycroft, I don't want to look at you right now."

The politician opens his mouth to argue but shuts it and heads for the door.

"Make sure he is ready to go in ten minutes, Sherlock." Mycroft says before slipping through the door. A vase connecting and then shattering against the door, laying in a pool of glass, water and flowers at the base of the door.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock's voice is quiet and surprisingly sad to John, who is breathing heavily from anger.

"I'm not leaving Sherlock, and if you are going to side with Mycroft then you might as well leave too." John says, his voice tired and aching. Sherlock stands up, and John lets his face fall for a second, thinking that Sherlock is going to abandon him. Instead, the genius grabs the doctor into a fierce hug, wrapping his limbs around the doctor's waist and crying silently into John's neck.

The doctor is so taken aback by the reaction that he softens and wraps his arms around Sherlock.

"I meant to say, I'm sorry John, so sorry that I'm being so selfish. I can't let you leave. I can't live in London knowing that you wouldn't be here." Sherlock confesses into John's neck.

John regards the comment and his heart melts.

"Sherlock, I can't leave you, especially now. I meant it, I'm forever yours and I want to be around you forever. Please don't make me go." John pleads.

"I couldn't let you go even if I wanted to." Sherlock states, planting soft kisses along John's neck.

"What about Mycroft?" John asks after several minutes.

"I'll deal with him." Sherlock answers, snuggling into the embrace tighter. "I will never let you go John Watson."


	14. Moriarty's Gift

Oh my gosh, this story let me tell you.

Reviews are always welcome. I love your love.

I love when you guys flatter me, it makes me want to write more.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p>Against the judgement and hysterics of Mycroft, John and Sherlock return to Baker Street. Mycroft doubles the security outside the flat while he starts the process of acquiring permanent bodyguards.<p>

Sherlock and John are happy, or as happy as can be with the threat of Moriarty still looming over them.

Even as they exit the cab, there freshly-ringed hands are intertwined, John leans heavily onto Sherlock, still weak and tired. They make it into the entrance way without any problems, John's joints are sore and healing, his mind is a little bit frazzled because of the unknown drug, but for the most part, the side affects are minimal. While in the hospital John had only had one flashback that Sherlock had witnessed, the site scared the detective. John didn't want to talk about it and Sherlock didn't push, not yet.

They enter the sitting room at Baker Street and John practically beelines for the kettle, almost knocking over piles of papers along the way. Sherlock lets him go, even though the doctor's moves are jerky and unbalanced. Sometimes, John feels like he has to do things himself and Sherlock lets him, even though it breaks his heart.

Sherlock moves into the sitting room and flops onto the couch unceremoniously, John isn't the only exhausted one. The detective's face is worn and gaunt from the countless sleepless nights, watching over John vigilantly, mostly to protect from unwelcomed threats, but the real reason Sherlock stayed is because he needed to be near John, he needed to hold the older man's hand to reassure the genius that John is real. That John is back.

Sherlock leans into the couch, his head resting against the back, closing his eyes as he hears John patter around in the kitchen, assembling his tea.

Light footsteps fall onto the stairs, Sherlock doesn't open his eyes, he recongises the sounds.

Sherlock had secretly hoped Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be around, he didn't want to aggravate the doctor anymore than necessary. However, he knows her motherly fussing is inevitable so he makes no move to stop her.

"Sherlock, dear-" Mrs. Hudson starts just as John is walking out of the kitchen, two cups of tea in his shaky hands. Mrs. Hudson turns to see John and her eyes widen in relief.

"Ah, John, you are home, how are you feeling?" Mrs. Hudson runs over to John and guides him gently into his chair, taking the second cup and putting it on the coffee table. Sherlock opens one of his eyes and peeks at the landlady and the doctor across from him. The genius sees the annoyed expression flash across John's features very quickly and then masked by a polite smile.

"Thank you, I'm fine Mrs. Hudson. Just some scrapes." John's voice is tired, but polite, Sherlock resists the urge to scoff at his 'just some scrape' they all know its infinitely more damage than that. Regardless, the doctor leans back into his chair, stretching his stiff legs out and relaxing his shoulder against the cushions. Sherlock closes his eye and relaxes too.

"Can I get you anything, food, biscuits?" Mrs. Hudson states, fussing over John.

"No thank you Mrs. Hudson. It's going to be a quiet night." Sherlock interrupts with a dismissive smile. The landlady knows when she isn't needed, although she is never bitter about it. She just places a timid hand on John's shoulder, comforting and motherly, before smiling at the doctor.

"I'm only a call away if you boys need me." Mrs. Hudson states turning to leave the room.

"Thank you." John says, his eyes already closed and his hands holding the hot mug firmly, but is tired grip loosening slightly.

"Oh, I almost forgot, Sherlock here is your mail." Mrs. Hudson says, turning around in the doorway, depositing the pile of envelopes she held in her hand, into Sherlock's lap, causing the detective to open his eyes and jump a little. With that, the landlady smiles and exits the room.

Sherlock thinks about shifting through the mail, but ultimately deems the task as boring. Instead, he looks at the man across from him. The doctor is slouching in the chair, two seconds away from sleeping. His features obviously twisted from exhaustion and turmoil from the past week.

"John, go to bed, if you fall asleep in that position you will be crabby." Sherlock remarks, standing up.

"You know just what to say to a guy to get him into bed don't you." John teases but makes no action to move.

Sherlock ignores his comment and presses on. "Tea will be here when you wake up." The detective walks over to the doctor and stands in front of him, ready to pick the older man up and carry him if the situation deems it. John doesn't open his eyes, he knows that Sherlock is looming over him in an attempt to be intimidating, when really it's just adorable because it proves that the genius cares.

"I think I will." John remarks, not even bothering to argue. He is tired, he's exhausted and the last thing he needs is a stroppy detective forcing, if not carrying the doctor to their bedroom. Sherlock lets out a silent sigh of relief and gently helps his fiance to a standing position. John leans into him and plants a kiss on his cheek

"I love you." He states, the endearment simple and raw. Real emotion filtering out of the doctor. Sherlock is almost taken aback.

"I love you more." The detective responds, his statement true and sound. John smiles and disentangles their arms, turning to walk out of the sitting room and towards the bedroom. Sherlock debates on whether to follow the man. The detective decides to let John sleep peacefully on his own, even though he wants to curl up with the doctor and never leave the flat, never leave each others side.

Then a rational part of Sherlock voices it's opinion, reinforcing Sherlock's decision to let the doctor sleep. Someone needs to keep an eye out. Sherlock knows that Mycroft has his men, but when has that done any good before. Until the bodyguards come along, Sherlock will not sleep, will not stop keeping a vigil of protection around the doctor. So with a sad sigh, Sherlock finalises his decision to stay in the sitting room. He decides to watch over the flat, to subdue any threats, anything to keep John safe and protected.

"See you when you wake up." Sherlock calls after him, the doctor's footsteps echoing with exhaustion. Sherlock walks over to the couch sweeping up the mail he left on the couch and moving swiftly to the mantle. He yanks the impaled penknife out of the ornate wooded mantle. As he shifts the bundle of papers, an envelope clatters to the floor.

Sherlock throws the mail and the pen knife onto the mantle and bends to pick the fallen parcel.

Sherlock bounces the package slightly in his hand, heavier than he would have thought. The detective scans the envelope, only his name and the address are sprawled across the pristine white surface. However, that's not what really catches the attention of the genius, Sherlock recognises the writing, the slope of the 's' and the slight slant of the entire form.

In a haste, Sherlock rips open the white cover. He tilts the parcel and an encased DVD falls out and tumbles languidly into Sherlock's palm. The detective stares at the case for a long minute, trying to deduce anything he can.

Unfortunately, Sherlock's heart is pumping so loud, that he is distracted by his sentiment and opens the case before he deduces anything.

Inside, a folded up piece of paper springs up, enticing the genius to read it first. Sherlock hesitatingly grabs the note,

_I hope you enjoy this as much as I did - M_

Sherlock's hands tremble slightly at this new nightmare. He quickly runs to the window, scanning the street, looking out onto London for the danger that is Moriarty.

Baker Street bustles like normal, mothers strolling with their children, people bustling to jobs or various restaurants.

None of this comforts the detective, he reluctantly turns his attention back to the case in his palms. He should wait for Mycroft, he should just call his brother, or at least Lestrade, he shouldn't put the DVD into John's computer and watch whatever sick thing Moriarty wants him to watch, because deep down, he knows what is on the DVD, deep down he knows what he will see.

Funnily enough, Sherlock isn't one for listening, even if it is his own conscience.

Sherlock sits down onto the sofa, grabbing John's near by computer. His back is straight and the laptop is positioned firmly on his knees. Sherlock twirls the DVD in his hands, really contemplating.

The whir of John's machine eating the disc echos the silent room.

At first a blank screen pops up, Sherlock holds a breath in.

* * *

><p>The screen suddenly fades into a picture. The room is dark and unreadable, a long desk sits in the foreground of the image and a man sits in a lush, ornate chair behind it. It doesn't take a genius to know who sits there.<p>

Moriarty. Sherlock wrinkles his nose in disgust.

_"Hello there, Sherly. I know that you missed Johnny Boy while I had him and as you can see I did finally decide to give him back..."_

The Irishman sits in front of the camera, his hands steepled in front of him, trying to act intimidating but Sherlock just sees the cliche dramatic. He scoffs at the criminal masterminds lack of originality. Sherlock studies the man's face, and as if to add to some vain need for dramatics, Moriarty's face is cover in half-shadow, making his face look longer and his eyes beadier.

_"...for now."_

Sherlock shivers at the pure menace of his tone. Somehow, even thought Sherlock sees the dramatics, sees the cliche, his mind is racing, deducing but his heart is fluttering with pure terror, fear for John, fear that the doctor will be taken away again.

_"The more I thought about it the more I wanted you to see how much fun I had."_ Sherlock's face twists in rage.

_"I'm not going to show you all of it..Not yet. Half of the fun is the suspense don't you think, Sherlock."_ Half of Moriarty's face, the lighted half, curls up in a smile. Sherlock grips the laptop tighter as the screen image of the criminal fades out.

...

The video cuts to a surveillance camera, likely in a corner of a room. A simple bed placed pushed up against one of the four brick walls. The room is very well lit, showing the medium sized bed with a metal bed frame. Nothing intimidating, in fact rather boring. Sherlock's inventory of the room is interrupted by the creaking of the metal door opening against the furthest wall, opposite the bed.

Sherlock watches in discomfort as two men enter the room, carrying the limp form of John between them. Sherlock scans the doctor's body, his face is swollen, but his clothes remain intact. The jumper hadn't been ripped at this point. Sherlock concludes this is the first time John is in the room.

Sherlock watches as Moriarty steps in next, waving to the camera with a smile before focusing onto the blond man.

_"You may leave."_ He dismisses the two subordinates and lays down next to the unconscious doctor. John doesn't stir at the extra weight on the bed, nor when the Irishman wraps his long arms around the older man's waist, snuggling close. Sherlock tries to hold in the bile rising up his throat. The image, the innocent violation sickens the detective. Sherlock feels a sudden urge to close the laptop and go out and ferociously hunt down the criminal mastermind.

His murderous thoughts are interrupted when he hears a soft whimper

_"Sherlock."_ Sherlock pierces down at John, his head lolling to one side as Moriarty grips him tighter, running a stroking hand through the blond locks, the doctor hums slightly and then hits slumber once again.

Sherlock's heart breaks and he knows this isn't even the worse.

...

The screen changes, Moriarty is gone and John is no longer laying on the bed, he is pacing the room, diligently running his hand along the walls, looking for any signs of weakness. His stance shows the soldier that never left. Sherlock feels a sense of pride and hope at the doctor's perseverance.

All hope leaves as suddenly as the metal door creaks open.

John instinctively tenses, he braces himself, back against the wall, fist clenched at his sides.

It happens in a rush, the door flings open abruptly and three men run into the room, pulling John away from the wall, gripping the doctor so tight that his jumper rips in the process. They tackle John and the doctor hits the ground, Sherlock knows it's his bad shoulder and he can see the wince of pain. Sherlock just watches horrified as John throws punches and kicks at his attackers before they subdue him fully on the ground. A man holds the doctor's arms above his head, while another man sits firmly on his waist, straddling the doctor while digging his hands into the John's hips. The third man sits on his knees securing John's legs at the calf. Each man has a job and they succeed in restraining the struggling soldier. John writhes violently under their grip.

_"Get off of me_." John yells through gritted teeth.

_"Johnny Boy."_ Sherlock hears the man before the mastermind enters the room, something glistening in his hand reflecting brightly in the lit room. A needle.

Sherlock leans into the laptop screen further, his heart and mind completely captivated by the tragic scene unfolding in front of him.

John notices the needle and struggles more valiantly, spouting out curses and mentions of revenge.

_"Now, Johnny Boy, No need to be rude."_ Moriarty sings, walking over to John's left side, bending his knees to get closer. Sherlock can see the anger and hatred rolling off of John and a hint of fear, but the soldier remains in control. "_You know, I don't usually dirty my hands but for you I'm going to make an exception."_

_"Then don't"_ Was John's simple answer. Moriarty smiles, maniac and gleeful before plunging the needle into John's exposed arm. John bucks his hips and tries to get away with no avail. Moriarty withdraws the plunger with a happy smile. The man who is gripping John's arms must have loosened his hold because in the next moment John's fist comes swinging through the air, intent to connect violently with Moriarty's face. The criminal mastermind sees it coming and efficiently flinches backwards, out of reach. John's fist actually hit the man on his waist, who lists to the side. John takes the advantage and sits up, lunging for Moriarty. The men quickly regain their composure and restrain the doctor once again and once again John is spewing out phrases of threats and curses.

_"Johnny, that's no way for a pet to behave."_ Moriarty says moving closer once John is subdued and stroking the doctor's cheek, slowly, tenderly. John tries to jerk away, but Sherlock can see the drug taking affect. Seconds later, John's fight weakens and his words become slurred, John stops struggling and his body goes limp. His human restraints pick him up and throw him onto the bed roughly, the man on who was on John's waist rubs his jaw, his eyes glaring at the unconscious doctor.

The men tie the doctor's wrist to the metal headboard with silk cloth. The four men step back and look at the limp form in front of them. With a wave, the men are dismissed and John is left alone in the room with Moriarty. Sherlock lets out a choked cry.

Moriarty once again climbs into bed with John, his John. Sherlock almost throws the computer against the wall in a possessive rage.

He watches horrified as the criminal lays his head down, onto John's shoulder, on arm wrapped lazily across the doctor's mid-section, twirling the fabric of John's ripped jumper. Sherlock's anger boils, the scene is so domestic, it makes the detective's insides squirm and his breathing heavy, angry.

After a few minutes of this horrid domesticity, John stirs, his head lolling to one side, a sigh escapes the doctor.

_"Johnny, how do you feel?"_ Moriarty doesn't move, John lets out a small mewl. Sherlock has never heard that sound come out of John and his anger doubles. _"Do you like my drug? I've been testing it, it has hallucinogenic properties."_ The Irishman's voice sings throughout the room, his hand that is playing with John's jumper climbs up the doctor's torso and finds John's hair, stroking it gently before returning to the jumper. John says nothing, his head thrashing lazily from one side to the next, his eyes still closed.

Suddenly, John thrashes become intensely violent, his arms tugging relentlessly against the restraints, not out of needs for escape but simply from pain and whatever else the drug is making the doctor feel. John's eyes open rapidly, wide with fear yet blurred and staring at the ceiling.

Sherlock's heart breaks. _"What is he seeing?"_ He ask himself. The screen fades to black again, Moriarty turning towards the camera and smiling as the image changes.

...

The clip cuts again and this time John is alone, he is still restrained but the look of fear is gone, instead panic has replaced it, the doctor is mindlessly tugging at his binds as he sings to himself, the tune unrecognizable and shaky. Sherlock knows he is scared, the doctor's knees are curled against himself slightly, and his eyes never leaving the ceiling. The song he sings is meant to comfort the doctor. Sherlock wonders if it's working, is the song comforting? All it's doing is making Sherlock's heart melt with guilt and heartache and agony.

However, a slight part of the detective sees the panic but also sees the calm of the man. He can't help but feel a sense of pride at how brave his soldier is being. He watches and John's singing turns from frantic and scared to cheerful and happy. The sudden change disturbs the detective. Is it because of the drug? Is it wearing off? What happened to him?

...

The video shifts again, this time John is screaming, yelling incoherently, his eyes darting around the room, pure terror in his eyes, before shutting them tightly. John arches his body violently, thrashing about, the restraints pulling at his limbs. The screams pierce Sherlock's ears and tears fall heavily down the detective's face.

...

John is silent, his eyes are wide, but he isn't screaming. Instead, Sherlock notices the trembling of the doctor's body, as John curls his knees in tight, mumbling escaping beneath the doctor's incoherent lips. Sherlock wonders how long John had been there at this point. Guilt eats at Sherlock, the detective who just left him there to be drugged and rot. Sherlock buries his heads in his hands, letting the tears fall shamelessly.

The door creaks open, Sherlock's head bolts upright and stares at the screen. Moriarty walks in whistling, the scene clenching at Sherlock's already fraying nerves.

John doesn't even notice the new person in the room, more fixed on the tiles above him, folding in on himself to try to get far away as possible from the invisible threat above.

Moriarty lays down next to the doctor again, this time he lowers himself gently on top of John, straddling the doctor. Sherlock straightens automatically, his mind silently chanting no. Moriarty lays his upper body onto John's torso, circling the doctor's neck and stroking John's head.

_"You know Johnny Boy, you are extremely attractive all helpless like this, with no Sherlock saving you."_ The criminal mastermind says this as he leans into John's neck, laying kisses in the crevice. Sherlock almost shuts the laptop right there, afraid of what happens next. The detective turns away from the screen, blinking back his tears. No, Sherlock has to see this, he has to know what happened. He has to endure this, if John did, the detective can.

A sudden scream brings him back to the screen. Moriarty is upright, a bite mark visible on John's shoulder, blood seeping down. John is writhing and screaming for the bats to leave, the doctor screams and thrashes, Moriarty falls off of the doctor with a huff.

_"You are no fun in your screaming stage."_ Moriarty's protests irritably and walks out of the room.

Sherlock jams a fist into his mouth to prevent the sobs from overtaking him.

...

John is sitting up, unrestrained, his face gaunt and haggard, his body is shaking violently, sweat clinging to the doctor. John has his arms wrapped around his knees, his back to the corner of the bed and wall, he rocks back and forth trying to get himself as far away from the door and the horrors as possible. Sherlock recognises the symptoms of withdrawal. The detective wonders how long John has been sober, he wonders how long he has been there.

The Irishman enters the room, John's body tenses and tries to curl into himself more, his shaking body making it hard to curl into the corner.

_"It's been too long."_ Moriarty states simply, sitting on the edge of the bed, his stance still guarded in case John decides to attack.

Sherlock doubts the possibility, John is too weak, physically and mentally, then again he has underestimated the doctor before. Sherlock silently hopes that he has underestimated the doctor this time as well.

_"Come on Johnny Boy, don't be like that. You know you want it."_ Moriarty coos, John grips his knees tighter, his head bowed down not looking at the evil in front of him. Moriarty brings his legs onto the bed and sits cross legged, playing with the needle in his hand. _"It's been to long, and you know it."_

_"No thank you, I'd rather not."_ John bites back with confidence but his voice is weak and tired. The detective can tell the position hurts the doctor, he can see the rigid muscles as he tries to control his body and his symptoms.

_"You know what that means."_ Moriarty sighs, snapping his fingers. John sighs, a heartbreaking, hopeless noise that rips Sherlock's heart in two. He tries to swallow himself with his arms as a man enters the room, automatically going to the doctor. John stays firm and doesn't move. The man yanks John's hands roughly away from his knees. John flails and tries to struggle, his attempts are useless and weak. The man refastens John's wrists to the bed and pulls John's legs straight. Moriarty sits there in wordless fascination as John is being manhandled. Once the restraints are in place, the man straddles John, the doctor writhes weakly beneath him, trying to thrash his body from side to side, even bucking his hips to get the man off.

_"Stop. I don't want it please. Get Off."_ John cries, tears in his eyes as he repeats the mantra.

"_Shh. Johnny." _Moriarty says, jumping off the bed and running a smooth hand up and down the insides of John's arm. The syringe glistens in the pristine light and finds it's way to John's elbow. John whimpers in response while repeating _"Please don't."_

Sherlock stares at the broken man before him.

...

_"Thank you Smith, now go and get Nathanial please, I'm sure he would like sometime with John."_ The screen fades in on Moriarty words. The time can't be two far apart from the previous clip. Sherlock watches the same man as before slide off of John and leave the room, meanwhile Moriarty has laid the needle on the ground and sits next to John, who lays limp but conscious. The doctor's head is turned to one side, his lips moving as he sings softly to himself, his voice quiet and fearful.

The door creaks open and another man enters the room, Sherlock recognises him immediately and his mind freezes and at this moment in time, Leonard scares the detective more than Moriarty will ever be able too. Right now, the detective's eyes are blurred with tears and his heart is racing and his mind is angry, because right now, Sherlock stares at the man on the screen the man that has revenge written all over his features.

Moriarty leans down next to John's ear, _"Now Johnny boy, Nathanial here has forgiven me for what happened to his ex-commanding officer but he blames you for his death."_ Moriarty strokes John's cheek, the doctor has stopped singing and looks at Nathanial with pure fear in his eyes. _"It really was your fault you know, I wouldn't have killed Montague if you hadn't been in the picture."_ Moriarty strokes John's face gently.

Moriarty sighs sadly and turns to leave the room. _"Nothing major, Leonard, I don't want death or broken bones. Just cuts if you please."_ With that, the Irishman hands over a penknife and leaves the room, leaves the menacingly figure to loom over an oblivious doctor. The ex soldier doesn't waste any time and his fist connect loudly with John's face, the thud and cracking making bile rise in Sherlock's throat. John starts to scream, his eyes wide.

_"STOP SHERLOCK! I'M SORRY!_" John bellows, tears flinging down his face as Leonard hits him and then pulls out a knife and cuts him. _"I'm Sorry, I'll be better Sherlock."_ John's tears run down his face as he continues to scream about Sherlock and bats. He watches horrified as Leonard cuts into John, leave bleeding red lines all over John's body.

The detective's heart sinks, John is hallucinating, worse his is hallucinating that Sherlock is the one hurting him. It's a wonder how the doctor is able to touch the detective. Sherlock's head falls into his hands with a cry of despair. The screams reverberate through Sherlock's ears, John screaming his name tearing at the detective painfully.

* * *

><p>"It's because I know that the real you would never hurt me." Sherlock stands up so abruptly that the laptop clambers to the ground, shutting the lid in the process, silencing the horrible screaming noises. John stands in the doorway of the sitting room, clad in pajamas, his bruises and cuts casting a dark morbid contrast against his pale skin. The tears fall so rapidly down Sherlock's face, the detective doesn't eve bother wiping them away. They stand like that for a minute, Sherlock crying and John staring blankly at the genius. Sherlock is trembling so fiercely that he fears he may collapse.<p>

Finally, Sherlock stops hesitating, he flings himself at the doctor, wrapping his gangly arms around the older man's form, burying his face into the doctor's neck, sobs escaping.

"I'm soo sorry." Sherlock repeats over and over again into John's body. The doctor's arm wrap themselves around Sherlock's form, gripping tightly.

"It's okay." John's says, his tone flat.

"No it's not. You...I..he's a dead man." Sherlock stumbles through the words, his rage and his grief messing with his usual articulate manner. John grips the detective fiercely, his one hand buried deep in the genius's hair. He leans his head into the detective's hair, inhales the genius, resisting the urge to have a flashback and relive the memories. He fights his feelings for a minute, instead focusing solely on the emotional man in front of him. However, the postpone of his own feelings doesn't stop the doctor's tears from spilling at the tragic scene in front of him.

"I'm going to kill him. He is dead." Sherlock voice is monotone and serious and John almost laughs, he doesn't doubt the detective nor does he find a bit of remorse of hesitancy at the genius's words.

The two men stand there in the sitting room, embracing and crying. Sherlock making an oath to himself to protect the doctor no matter the costs. In that moment the detective makes a decision.

"It's time for us to go." Sherlock states finally, pulling out of the embrace simply, wiping the tears from his eyes and pulling out his mobile phone, Mycroft already dialed.

* * *

><p>Wow. There ya go, that was quite a chapter.<p> 


	15. Letters From London

I'm finally back,

Oh oh,

Thanks everyone for the reviews, I do love some good old fashion flattery.

I'm ready to go with more updates and such.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p>The mansion sits lavishly on an avaricious amount of crisp green grass, trimmed and maintained with perfection. The grounds looks like they came out of some upper class home journal.<p>

It's been a week since Sherlock had packed them both up and moved swiftly and quickly to the country side. John knows his fiance is well off, but when John stepped out of the car seven days ago, his eyes never set sight on such a large and impressive complex. The manor is huge, columns, white as snow, twist from the ground to two stories up, steadying a balcony with intricate black iron railings, that jut out into the countryside air. The entire mansion shines in white, with touches of black railings and accents intertwined with the many windows facing out on all of the five floors.

The front door is black with golden knobs, sticking out in their rich contrast. John almost had to hold his jaw together. He had never seen such a lavish place.

John thought the outside was amazing, but once he got inside the manor, he almost lost it. The rooms of the interior part of the house are just as beautiful and exquisite as the exterior, each room with it's own color scheme that makes it unique but connects it with the long hallway that opens up to a huge grand staircase, littered with a chandelier glowing in earnest.

"It used to be my grandmother's, a long long time ago. It's been in the family for ages." Sherlock offered explanation through John's stunned silence.

Now, seven days later, John sits in the gardens, one of many generous outdoor areas, staring up at the mansion, looming high and huge in the distance.

A week is a long time, John has almost got his internal blueprint of the mansion memorised so he can navigate, although he only really pays attention to where the kitchen, library and bedroom is, every other room is just obnoxious and a space filler on his blueprint.

John sits alone on the lush grass, Sherlock off gallivanting somewhere, turning the room across from their bedroom into a laboratory for the evil scientist, in preparation for cold cases coming from Lestrade later that evening. The detective has been good, they spent the last week on vacations of sort, even thought they are both here for their protection, as if the 24 hour body guards didn't give it away.

However, John has noticed the detective getting bored, his stroppiness is popping up randomly. So, to prevent catastrophic events and an unbearable genius, John did the only thing he could think of, he got into contact with Mycroft who in turn got into contact with Lestrade and now there is a truck on it's way full of cold cases for Sherlock.

The detective is ecstatic, smiling and running about the mansion in his eagerness.

John finally had to leave the house to escape the clattering and general haphazard running about of the excited detective.

Only few things have really changed for the pair, there is a lot more free time now that John doesn't have the surgery to worry about or even chasing criminals around London. John has found himself relaxing and still recovering, letting his body heal. The mansion is beautiful and the gardens and grounds are beautiful, a perfect place for recuperating, not to mention having Sherlock around all the time.

The major adjustment the doctor has is the three bodyguards that rotate in shifts.

Agent George Hockley, a younger man, he is stoic in nature and talks rarely, but when he does talk, he talks about his three year old girl, who John, and only John, has gotten to see pictures.

Agent Christine Smithson, a women that reminds John of Anthea, distant but pleasant, friendly enough, but instead of tapping away at a blackberry, the agent is obsessive and intimidatingly deadly with her gun.

The last bodyguard that John is assigned is Jude, another man, and by far John's favorite, enough so that they are on first name basis and talks regularly. Agent Jude Hanley, father of two. Levi, five years old, just celebrated a birthday and Chloe, seven years old. His wife died three years ago from cancer and the children live with his mother. The agent misses them dearly but has some sacred devotion to Mycroft, one that John cannot place.

Sherlock only has one minder, Anderson. Despite the name, this Anderson is smarter than the forensic ape back in London. The man is older, he keeps to himself and is the only one that didn't set Sherlock on edge by being in the same room with the genius. The detective use to have three like John, but his _oh so_ charming demeanor scared the rest off. Anderson, against all odds, stayed and even tolerate the detective. The agent is only assigned to the detective when he is alone, like now, poor Anderson having to literally run after the enthusiastic detective.

As of now, Hockley stands, shaded by a giant oak tree, a mere three yards away from John, his eyes darting in multiple directions, searching for any dangers. John plucks the grass absentmindedly, idly wondering and predicting how extravagant the detective's lab is going to be and if John is going to have to pry him out of the room more often than not.

"John." Jude's voice echoes through the small garden, the doctor's head bolts up with a smile. The man walks towards him in his usual suit jacket and trousers. His government issued gun holstered and his walk relaxed but professional. In his hands, a stack of envelopes bouncing slightly as he walks.

"Shift change?" John questions, smirking. The agent smirks in reply and walks towards the doctor.

"You bet." Jude says cheerily, nodding to Hockley, the stoic man pushes himself off the tree.

"Good evening, Dr. Watson, Hanley." Hockley nods before departing along the cobbled path up to the house. John watches the man disappear into the distance and then finally into the house.

"Jude, how are you mate?" John inquires genuinely after a few minutes, turning his attention back to the agent that has now plopped down next to him, his eyes scanning around the area and yet still able to concentrate on John's questions.

"Good Good. Brought the post." Jude states handing over the envelopes in his hands over to John, Jude stands up and shifts away silently to give John some privacy.

No phones, Mycroft's policy, they aren't allowed phones and they have a special scrambler for their internet, makes them impossible to track. Even then, John or Sherlock aren't allowed on their websites, for security reasons. They are cut off from the world, so people write. John can't write back, security reasons, but Mrs. Hudson and even once Harry, send letters regardless.

A letter from Mrs. Hudson and one John doesn't recognise are the only important ones in John's stack.

The doctor regards the strange one first, the envelope is pristine with just enough information and stamps. John rips open the envelope first, his curiosity overwhelming him.

Blue ink and familiar writing stare back at John and the hairs on the back of his neck immediately call for attention. The doctor tries to keep his face and body neutral as he reads the letter, part of him already knowing what is written and that it's by a certain criminal mastermind.

Every thing in John's being tells him to rip the letter up, throw it away or at least give it to Sherlock, anything besides reading it.

He suddenly wonders why the criminal would risk contact. John pushes his doubts away and decides, against his better judgement, to read the letter. John stares down at the words, concentrating solely on the sprawl.

* * *

><p><em>My dearest Johnny Boy,<em>

_How are you my little pet? I hear you are living in the countryside, how domestic. Dull. _

_I fear that I'm missing our time together more and more as the days go on._

_Did you see the video? Did you love it? I bet you did, I bet Sherlock really did too._

_I'm afraid, love, I've become attached and I can't resist you anymore. I think it's _

_time to get rid of Sherlock, Johnny Boy. I would prefer to do it myself, but I'm afraid _

_I won't get to the countryside for some time. Now I know that you are pedestrian, _

_my pedestrian, but nonetheless let me be clear, this slow form of communication _

_and stamps are tedious and inconvenient._

_Basically, I'll see you when you get back to London._

_XOXOX - M_

* * *

><p>John's mouth gapes open, he glances quickly over his shoulder. Jude is in the same position that Hockley had occupied mere minutes ago. John is grateful that his back is to the agent. The doctor fights hard to keep his body neutral, to not alert the perceptive agent.<p>

However, John lets his face go, pure fear, anger, sadness, despair, and confusion flow over John's expression, it takes everything in the soldier's power to not hyperventilate.

Moriarty is in London still, and he knows where the doctor and his detective are. _"This is a bit not good."_

John hands shake, he stares at the letter, his thoughts cluttered and mixing with fear. John rereads the letter over and over, letting his emotions free reign.

_"I think it's time to get rid of Sherlock, Johnny Boy."_

John sighs internally, Get rid of Sherlock? How dare he? John lets the anger course through him, Moriarty is threatening the detective and John can't let any harm come to the detective.

John starts to stand but then freezes. He intended to go straight to Sherlock and force the letter into his face, demanding that Mycroft take the criminal mastermind out for good. A thought stops him.

Sherlock would insist going right into London as bait. There are too many factors where that situation could end badly.

Sherlock could run off like he usually does, leaving John behind and the detective ending up getting in danger.

Each factor would result in Sherlock injured or worse death.

The thought of Moriarty actually succeeding in bringing the two them back into London and killing Sherlock causes the detective to panic. John puts the letter in his lap, the blue ink fading from his vision. John stares at the green grass in front of him, his thoughts and decisions in turmoil.

John makes a decision, _"No matter what, Sherlock must live."_

And right now that means keeping the letter a secret. John doesn't even rethink it, it's instinctual, keeping Sherlock out of the loop, keeps the detective alive.

"John, are you all right?" Jude's voice is close and it interrupts John, the doctor forces his faintly trembling body to calm and his face to go as neutral as possible. John looks up at the agent to find him standing in front of him, Hanley's expression worry with concern.

John quietly and subtly folds the letter and puts it back in it's envelope, putting it with the rest of the stack.

John closes his eyes and takes a breath, "Yes, no. I'm not feeling very well." John attempts to lie smoothly, opening his eyes and putting on a slightly pained expression, like the one he sees when people are suffering migraines. "A bit of a headache." John adds convincingly.

"Let's go back then." Jude says, believing John and the doctor resists the urge to sigh with relief. He picks himself up off the ground walks up the cobblestone, the letter burning a hole in his hand, on top of the other envelopes of the post.

John hears Jude following maybe a foot behind, his actions silent, watching for potential dangers.

Too bad Jude doesn't know that the most danger within a great distance lays in John's hand, burning a hole in John's confidence, healing process, and potentially his relationship with Sherlock.

* * *

><p>Three days pass, three excruciating and painful days. John's eyes are purple with lack of sleep and his stomach clenches with emptiness.<p>

His emotions and thoughts are punishing the doctor severely, not to mention the lying he has to do in Sherlock's presence.

He hasn't had a full conversation with Sherlock for the past two days, he is actively avoiding the detective, to the pure horror and guilt of the doctor's soul. He can't risk it, John is too scared that his face will give it all away.

The letter. John sighs painfully.

The doctor has never kept a secret from Sherlock and he is a terrible liar, the only thing he could think of is avoiding the younger man, but at what cost? What's the point?

_"So Sherlock doesn't going running off to London, to face Moriarty. That's why." _John sighs, tears threatening to spill at his utter exhaustion and agony._  
><em>

John is in the library alone, Smithson standing outside the doors. The doctor asked for alone time in the room, so he could break down by himself. He has been sitting in the room for hours, watching as the books turn from a bright yellow to a redden glow because of the sunset that shines through the tall windows. Now the spines are in darkness, the whole room darkened by the night sky, not even the moonlight offers illumination.

John sits in the same chair he has been in that last couple of hours, his face, barely lit by a single lamp to his left, his head lay in his hands, his thoughts in turmoil.

His thoughts go constantly back to the letter, the threats, the outright taunting. It all tugs at his mortality and self-control.

Despite the turmoil and the overall deteriorating health, John stands behind his decision to keep Sherlock safe.

The past few days have been spent rereading the letter in his mind, the torments echoing through his sleep. After the first nightmare and flashback riddled night, John now refuses to sleep. He couldn't handle reliving Moriarty's touches on his drugged skin, or the faint hallucinations that plague his thoughts every time he shuts his eyes.

John has been living off of coffee for the past two days, the caffeine single-handedly keeping the doctor unhealthily awake.

Flashbacks are now seeping into John's wakeful hours, the exhaustion tearing at him. John only remembers vaguely about his times in captivity. He gets flashes of Moriarty laughing, or of the criminal mastermind next to him, hands on his body. Sometimes, he sees Nathanial Leonard above him before the images change into pain.

After day two, John starts to be honest with himself, not only is he protecting Sherlock, but he is also protecting himself, he doesn't want to go back to Moriarty and he knows that if Sherlock every found out about the letters, Sherlock would insist on taking care of the mastermind by himself to so John didn't have to.

They were both self sacrificing like that.

John doesn't want to remember, he pushes the thoughts away, he forces the remembered hallucinations away, focusing on trying to keep his secret, trying to keep Sherlock safe from the clutches of Moriarty, safe from every having to make a self sacrificing decision like that.

If the flashbacks prove anything, its the necessity that John feels to keep Sherlock away from the mastermind for as long as possible, if not forever.

A knock at the door, John straightens up slightly as Smithson walks into the door.

"Christine." John acknowledges.

"You look terrible, Watson." The agent remarks with a certain firm softness, standing in front of the doctor. John ignores her comment, they have all noticed how ragged the doctor has become and all of them, including the stoic Hockley has tried to talk sense into the exhausted soldier.

They think it has to do with John's flashbacks and healing process, which is partly true but nobody knows about the real cause, nobody knows about the letter that plagues John's emotions.

"Are those recent?" John asks apprehensively, pointing to the post in her hand. He hopes that there is nothing in those envelopes except Mrs. Hudson, even a drunken letter from Harry would be nice.

"Yeah, Hanley just got them from Mycroft's delivery men." Smithson says handing over the letters.

"Thank you Christine." John states dismissively. Smithson nods and exits the library to stand outside the door.

John shifts through the mail slowly, fear in his eyes.

An envelope, the same handwriting, same ink sticking out in John's mind. John bolts up, his legs straight and the remaining envelopes falling to the floor. _"Not again."_

The doctor rips open the envelope unceremoniously.

* * *

><p><em>My dearest Johnny Boy,<em>

_Did you get my other letter? You didn't write back. That's not very polite, my pet._

_I miss you, love. Have you seen the tapes yet?_

_Do you remember struggling beneath me?_

_Do you remember the great time we had?_

_I do, I clearly remember. Do you still have that love bite?_

_That was my favorite part, although I did get interrupted by the drug._

_Next time you will be sober so I can enjoy it._

_So, how's the country, are you bored yet?_

_Is Sherlock being nice to you my dear._

_I wouldn't want anymore reasons to kill him._

_I can't wait til you are back in London so I can feel you beneath me again._

_I love you Johnny Boy._

_XOXOX - M_

* * *

><p>"Next time." John says incredulously, <em>"so I can feel you beneath me again."<em> The doctor's anger bubbles uncharacteristically. John is trembling, his arms vibrating violently and his shoulders tense. His breathing starts to go heavy and his heart picks up pace.

Thee emotional roller coaster the doctor has been on is starting to fray the jumper-clad man.

"Love bite?" John grumbles angrily, pulling his shirt down slightly at the collar to look at the scarring bite, his fingers probing the healing wound, images of a room and lights prance in front of John's memories, a blurred face of the Irishman, taunting him, the feeling of wetness against his shoulder. The images make John's eyes swell with painful tears. John lets his jumper fall back into place as he stares at the rug in front of him, on the verge of a panic attack.

He lets the anger course through him, diverting from a pathetic and possibly paralyzing panic attack. In a swift moment the anger takes hold of him and John is pacing vigorously on the rug. His eyes downward and unseeing. His thoughts running rampant, from the letter to flashbacks to fantasies of killing Moriarty.

"Next time." John exasperates and anger surges through him and into his left arm which outstretches and a loud crash erupts in the room.

A shattered vase lays in pieces at John's feet. The doctor is literally shocked, he withdraws his extended arm and curls it into himself shamefully. He stares at the shattered artifact, the blue pieces probably at one time had cost a small fortune. The room is quiet except for John's heavy breathing and rapid heart.

"John?" The doctor jumps, startled by the sudden voice, his eyes shooting up, full of angry and sad tears and his body still shudders violently, even through his irrational shock of breaking something.

John didn't even hear the door open, he didn't hear that Sherlock had slipped into the room and saw the whole thing. The tall man looks at him, his expression full of worry, sadness, and...anger.

John looks down at the letter stupidly, _"The past three days, all for nothing."_ John thinks bitterly and shamefully. The doctor can't help but let out a sigh of relief, of not having to hide anymore.

He vaguely wonders if the detective is getting sloppy or if the doctor is getting better at hiding.

"I knew something was wrong." Sherlock says with a bitter softness. John looks at the genius, who is just standing in the doorway slightly, the door still open, the detective ready to flee if the situation grants it. The sight saddens John, guilt, remorse and shame run rampant at John's thoughts of neglected the detective in the past few days. John turns his face away from the genius, but not before Sherlock sees tears fall, threatening to become sobs.

The detective walks into the library and shuts the door behind him with a audible click.

John looks down at the evil words, his back to the approaching detective, shame burning his insides. Why did he think he could keep it a secret?

John feels hands cupping his face gently. The doctor's eyes close and he instinctively leans into the touch, letting the weeks stress and worry leave his body. John lets the tension of Moriarty's threats and words leave for a few seconds. John's legs wobble with weakness.

"Oh." John exclaims, his face twisted in surprise as he legs suddenly give out and he buckles to the floor.

Or at least he would have if the detective hadn't wrapped his deceivingly strong arms around the doctor, preventing John from careening to the floor. The detective holds tight, and moves John to the nearby sofa, opposite the chair. John doesn't resist and lets the detective guide him to the furniture, the doctor slightly out of breath, lightheaded and dizzy.

"You haven't eaten anything in almost 42 hours, John." Sherlock voice is smooth and matter of fact.

All John can do is laugh, he has been so stressed and full of anxiety in the last 72 hours, permeating with nightmares and flashbacks all the while trying to keep a great secret, sleep and food are the last things on his mind. The fact that he relaxes and becomes almost anxiety free in the mere presence of his fiance just makes John feel more guilty. With that thought he laughs more and judging by the worried expression on Sherlock's face, it's not very welcomed or reassuring at this point.

Sherlock positions John on the sofa with care, the doctor's back leaning onto Sherlock's front, the detective against the arm rest and his limbs wrapping protectively around the doctor, one arm encircling John's waist and the other rest on his upper torso, the hand drawing absentminded, invisible circles around John's heart.

The pair sit in silence, John becoming more exhausted, his bravery and guilt keeping him conscious and awake. John mind travels to the note and it's implications. Moriarty is going to take him and his willing to kill Sherlock to make it happen, John knows this. Why send another note? To mess with the doctor? To cause more pain?

_"No matter what, Sherlock must live."_ John promises himself once again.


	16. Hey Jude

Oh my gosh, aren't you guys lucky, two updates relatively right after each.

I have this ready and everyone is so eager, so I decided to post it.

Reviews are wanted.

Peace&Love

* * *

><p>"Why?" Sherlock asks his voice slightly hurt, breaking the silence after a few minutes. It doesn't take a genius or a detective to know what the younger man is timidly asking.<p>

Why didn't you tell me? Or sub textually, 'I thought you trusted me, we are going to be married. If we can't trust each other who can we trust?'

John shakes his head with shame, exhaustion wiping out all of his reasoning, his defiance of keeping Sherlock safe getting thrown out the window as the vulnerable baritone gripping him.

The doctor sits silently, trying to find the right words to communicate how he really wasn't thinking and how it wasn't about trust, it was about protection. He wants to convey that it was just instinctual to keep the secret, the secret to protect the detective.

"Sherlock..I.. I'm sorry." The doctor murmurs, his voice small, ashamed, yet full of emotion and truth.

John tenses slightly against Sherlock, he doesn't know how the detective will react, John is ready to leave the comforting grip if the genius is angry or John ready to comfort if Sherlock is sadden by the betrayal.

Sherlock grips tighter, pulling John into his chest more and nuzzling in the blond hair, effectively telling John to stay.

The doctor is frayed, his emotions, his body, his reasoning, and apparently his predictions, He didn't expect the detective's response at all. John expected anger, frustration, sadness not what Sherlock is doing now or what he is about to do.

"What does he say?" The question is simple, and John knows it, but the doctor can't say. It's like if he repeats the words out loud, they are true. Sherlock can't die or even be threatened out loud. Besides Moriarty's words don't deserve the recognition of being read out loud.

However, John can feel the detective tensing at his inevitable words, so the doctor does the next best thing. He loosens his fist and hands the crumpled letter to the detective whose long fingers take it wordlessly.

John closes his eyes, not wanting to see anything, wishing he could sink somewhere where stress and anxiety and Moriarty couldn't find him.

Over the next minute and a half, Sherlock reads and rereads the letter, anger and sadness tensing his body reflectively. John grips the detectives hand and draws circles on the back of it, trying to soothe the angered detective.

Abruptly, Sherlock crumples the letter in what appears to be a fit of anger. John doesn't say anything. He lets Sherlock breath heavily until he's calm, griping his hand to provide comfort, all the while wondering irrationally if the anger is directed at the doctor.

"I would have done the same thing." Sherlock states finally, John gapes in shock, the doctor expected yelling, or at least a sulk, not acceptance.

"What?" John asks incredulously unable to hide his disbelief.

"I would have keep the letters a secret." Sherlock clarifies gently. His arms tightening it's grip subconsciously.

John stays in a silent contemplation, he didn't expect this reaction. He expected stroppy, smarmy, angry, sulky Sherlock, not an accepting pensive one.

"And, You would have eventually found out like I did because you are good at that, not as good as me, but admirable." Sherlock remarks. "It would have taken you longer but you would have found out." John resist rolling his eyes at the detective's smugness.

John listens, unsure how to respond, he hums and nods in a timid agreement. His eyelids threatening to close, he snaps them open, he deserves whatever Sherlock is saying to him, he needs to stay awake, it's the least he can do.

"And you would have be angry." Sherlock states bitterly, John can't see it, but he is sure the genius has scowl on his face.

_"Ah."_

"You are angry." John says matter of fact, a new surge of guilt washing over him, and realising that his fears have come true. John tries to get up from the embrace, the detective is angry and John is too ashamed to be comforted in the embrace any longer

"Of course, John." Sherlock says in his 'you are being an idiot' voice, but doesn't let John go, he keeps John in place as he continues to talk. "But I know why you did it, it was an emotional decision. Maybe even logical in the most liberal sense." Sherlock says, he voice firm but gentle. John stops struggling to get out of the detective's grip. John opens his mouth to respond when Sherlock starts to speak again.

"I need you to understand, Moriarty won't be around forever, in fact not much longer if Mycroft can actually do his job." Sherlock scoffs, John not sure if the resentment is towards his meddling brother or the fact that he has to resort to letting Mycroft take out the detective's greatest enemy.

"Until then," Sherlock starts, "or rather always, there needs to be trust, John. If there is any hope of putting Moriarty down, all information is mandatory."

John nods, "I'm sorry." is all the doctor can repeat, his own guilt and emotions preventing any defense. He knows he doesn't have one, what he did was instinct.

"I know," Sherlock says nuzzling his nose into John's hair, "I would have done the same thing and you would have been furious like I am now."

"Yeah," John agrees, "I would have."

"So we agree?" Sherlock asks, planting small kisses into John's hair, causing the doctor to relax far more than before.

"Yes," John resigns, his eyelids dropping closed.

"Go to sleep John, the flashbacks and nightmares have kept you awake." Sherlock states and John just nods, silently in awe at the familiar perceptiveness of the detective.

"I love you...soo much." He adds, tears of relief escaping his eyes, before succumbing to sleep.

"I love you too." Sherlock says to the already sleeping doctor.

* * *

><p>"I want to see the other letter, John." Sherlock states when the two of them are alone in the kitchen. Sherlock had sent Hockley out of the room briefly and suspiciously, even John caught on to the not so subtle detective.<p>

"Why?" John asks over his hearty bowl of cereal. Fifteen minutes ago, John woke up from his fourteen hour _nap_, the first sound and dreamless sleep the doctor has experienced since returning from Moriarty's clutches. Sherlock insisted that John eat something and John's grumbling stomach agreed. It is the first thing John has eaten in days.

John didn't ask for argument sake, he is simply curious to why Sherlock wants to read the other letter, part of the doctor wanting to protect the detective still again the salacious words of the Irishman.

"I have a theory." Sherlock states noncommittally. John, even against his better judgement, silently agrees to let the detective read the other letter, because even after Sherlock's reassurances and John's sleep, the guilt and shame still remain and John feels like he needs to gain back Sherlock's trust. Plus, the genius did say that all information on Moriarty is mandatory and John agrees.

John finishes his breakfast and goes to retrieve the letter from his hiding place, amongst the cleaning supplies, and place Sherlock would never look.

John hands the envelope to the detective. Sherlock looks over the envelope, deducing everything from it. John doesn't stick around, he knows that letter inside and out and he can't bear looking at Sherlock as he reads his source of torment for the past three days.

Sherlock doesn't open up the envelope, instead he puts it down on the kitchen table an whips out a cellphone.

"Where did you get that?" John asks incredulously, staring at the detective typing furiously.

"Don't be dull, did you honestly think I would have lasted this long with a phone." Sherlock remarks with a indignant snort.

"You aren't supposed to have that." John states and Sherlock scoffs rolling his eyes, the phone beeping with a message.

"What if Moriarty finds us through that thing?" John questions more for argument sake rather than actual distrust.

"Do give me some credit John. It's non-traceable." Sherlock huffs. John just rolls his eyes and crosses his arms across his chest, "Besides, how do you think I'm in contact with Mycroft."

John just looks out the window and scoffs at the tenacious detective.

"What are you doing then?" John asks after a few minutes of Sherlock texting furiously.

"Trying to get Mycroft to come here." Sherlock states, staring at his screen with concentration.

"Why?" John questions with surprise.

"Because someone in this house is working for Moriarty." Sherlock mumbles out, suddenly apprehensive at how John will take the news. The doctor stiffens predictably.

"What? How?" John sputters. His mind reels, he has been in the house with someone who is working with his greatest fear for the past week and a half and he didn't know.

"John," Sherlock puts down his phone and looks up at the doctor for the first time. John doesn't notice, he is too busy freaking out, his breath quickening and his heart rate beating rapidly.

"John, calm down." The detective states walking around the table and kneeling in front of the doctor.

"Who?" John is able to mutter. Sherlock shakes his head.

"I don't know." Sherlock states, resenting his own failure of the unknown.

"How?" John repeats, trying to push his panic down, trying to remain calm.

"Mycroft has been screening our post, the letter wouldn't have been able to make it to your hands if it came in the actual post." Sherlock starts, "I thought maybe it was disguised somehow, but it isn't. Someone here slipped the letter into the stack of envelopes and made it look like it came in the post." John looks up at the detective, not knowing which to be more offended by, the fact that Mycroft has been screening their private letters or the fact that Moriarty has a spy here, slipping ominous letters into the post.

John is on the verge of a panic attack, or three seconds away from stampeding angrily around the mansion to furiously interrogate everyone.

Then a thought stops him, "There are only six people in this house," John says out loud looking into Sherlock's eyes.

"Yes, you, me, Anderson, Smithson, Hockley and," Sherlock states

"Jude." John finishes, something in his mind clicking. Sherlock raises an eyebrow at John's resigned, almost saddened expression.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock asks. John shakes his head, not wanting to admit it. Sherlock's expression forces out the troubling words.

"Jude gave me the post the first time." John asks, putting his head in his hands, betrayal clouding his emotions.

"It might not be him." Sherlock says, trying to comfort the older man. "What about the second time? Smithson said she gave you the post." Sherlock states, seeing the doctor's betrayal. The detective sits on the stool next to John, not really know what to do, but hoping his presence offers reassurance. "We don't know who did it," Sherlock adds.

"Jude, I mean, Hanley got the post from the delivery men the second time." John adds quietly, Sherlock's mind reels at the information. "It's too much of a coincidence." John remarks.

"I did notice something a tad different with him for the past couple of days, nothing major." Sherlock states, John tries to think back, to see if he observed any difference, all John sees is his own turmoil, pain and exhaustion, nowhere in his mind does he even remember conversing with Jude in the past few days.

"So now what?" John asks, staring straight ahead, seething with betrayal. Jude is a friend, or at least the doctor thought he was.

"We could question him. Anderson could help." Sherlock states.

"Do you trust Anderson?" John asks, somewhat disbelieving that Sherlock even brought up the idea of doing anything with the minder.

"He's too smart to be working for Moriarty." was Sherlock's simple answer, and somehow it completely convinces John.

"Do we have any other option?" John questions.

"Mycroft is going to be here early tomorrow morning with more men, until then, we should try to neutralise the threat." Sherlock says, playing idly with his phone, staring straight ahead like John.

"I guess." John says with resignation.

* * *

><p>Within fifteen minutes, Agent Anderson, Sherlock, John and Agent Hanley are in a small room somewhere deep in the mansion. Hanley is handcuffed to a chair, while Anderson stands behind him, his stance protective but his face indifferent. His eyes, however, remain glued on the agent in question.<p>

"Why?" Sherlock asks, standing directly in front of Jude, his stance intrigued but neutral. John hangs back in the shadows, not really wanting to be part of the interrogation, part of the betrayal, but his own curiosity forcing him to stay in the room. Besides, with a house full of potential employees of Moriarty, if Jude is proven innocent, John is in the safest place possible, right by Sherlock's side.

"What do you mean?" Jude asks, his own face trying to stay neutral, but cracks of apprehension and even intimidated fear leak through. The agent is hiding something, a government agent doesn't crack this easily, unless he has something to hide, something dear to him. John notices this and gets an idea.

"How are Levi and Chloe, Jude?" John asks, surprising Sherlock with his calm voice, the detective jerks his head up and looks at John, a nod from Sherlock and John continues.

"They, they are fine, why?" The agent in question falters. His eyes cast downward.

"Just wondering why you would risk your life and never be able to see them again. You know Mycroft is going to lock you away, possibly even torture you for information." John states nonchalantly, not moving from his spot in the shadows.

"It's not like that." Jude states, his stance is tall, even tied to the chair.

"Then what? Why, Jude?" John can't help keep the betrayal out of his voice. "You lead him right to us!" John screams, his anger surfacing again.

"I didn't mean too. I'm sorry John." Hanley blubbers, his expression panicked, "They have my kids, John, he has Chloe and Levi." The man before him is crying and John resist a squeak of shock. Of course, Moriarty would threaten children.

John can't help but pity the mumbling man in front of him.

"I didn't know what was in the letters, I didn't know. He told me to slip them in with the post and my kids would be safe." Hanley pleads desperately.

"Well, I think we found the mole, so to speak." Anderson states. John looks up at the agent and considers him, this is possibly the first time John has ever heard the gruff voice of the man. Somehow, the deep, rough voice makes John immediately trust him.

"Yes, Anderson." Sherlock states and moves to leave the room. "Come along, John." Sherlock grabs John's wrist and opens the door to leave.

"Wait, What about my kids? What are you going to do with me?" Hanley's cries echo into the hallway. Sherlock ignores them and shuts the door behind him.

John feels a sense of relief wash over him, they caught the culprit but at what cost. The potential lives of two children.

However, in the back of John's mind a thought screams at him.

_"Why did that all seem to easy."_


	17. Betrayal

Oh, thank you everybody, you are all so kind.

This story is just flowing out of me, I hope its going okay for everyone

I'm pretty sure it's obvious but this is unbeta'd and I try to reread and fix my mistakes but some slip through, if there is anything alarming let me know.

Thank you everyone for sticking with me, I really appreciate it.

I like reviews btw.

Peace&Love

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><p>Despite the fourteen hour rest John had, the events following Jude's betrayal and the thoughts of Moriarty being so close all along send John into another bout of silent exhaustion.<p>

Or what John thought had been being silent.

"John, let's go to bed." Sherlock says simply, reading the doctor's mind once again. They both walk down the hallway after just leaving Jude, still screaming in the pseudo interrogation room. Hockley follows silently behind them, his presence known but not intruding.

"Okay." John says leaning closer to the detective, intertwining their hands.

At 11 pm, about fifteen minutes after leaving Jude in the room, John collapses on the bed, Hockley guarding outside, now that they are down a minder, Hockley and Smithson have to share longer shifts. Smithson would change in a few hours leaving the man outside for the next four hours.

John snuggles up to the still form of Sherlock, his knees pushing into the detective's thighs and his body succumbing to sleep quickly.

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><p>John dreams, it is neither happy nor terrifying. He is simply laying on his back, hands above his head, clouds acting as his mattress. He turns his head side to side looking for a certain detective, something to make the dream even better. No luck, endless white and clouds fill his vision.<p>

He spends an indescribable amount of time in this cloud dream. Occasionally he hears a voice, muffled but in a deep baritone that causes John to look around again but find no one.

"JOHN!" The sudden voice jerks John's mind, the image starts to blur into the bedroom. John realises, with a very scary thought, that he is dreaming. The voice calls for him again and John tries to wake up, he tries to sit up from the cloud. His body is motionless, bound in the dream.

He listens hopelessly as the voice grows louder and then fades into a muffled voice again.

* * *

><p>When John finally does wake, he comes into consciousness slowly, his limbs are heavy with exhaustion and his mind is fogged. He shakes his head and tries to clear the sleep from his mind.<p>

He opens his eyes slowly and tries to take in the room through his blurred vision. A faint light travels into the room through the curtains, but that's not what catches the doctor's attention.

A familiar face looms over him. The young face is speaking but John is frozen in fear, because the face directly in front of him is the face of Nathanial Leonard.

John tries to scream, anything to gather the attention of someone, his thoughts focused on the monster in front of him. The doctor's voice comes out muffled, wet cloth preventing noise from escaping the ex-soldier.

The doctor tries to punch the man on top of him, but his hands won't move. With a twist of his body, John look up to find his hands restrained above his head. John tugs at the rope but it only tightens, cutting off the circulation bit by bit.

"Hello Dr. Watson." Leonard's voice breaks through John's brain, the syllables dripping with disdain and a tenor melody. The doctor flinches in fear at the voice and it's power. The younger soldier face is twisted in delight and John can't help shuddering.

"I've come to play. Again." Leonard says and gets up from John. The doctor closes his eyes and braces himself for impact, he wonders where Sherlock is, he tries to feel if the detective is next to him without opening his eyes. The bed feels cold next to the doctor but John can't be sure.

A minute passes and John feels nothing, no pain. He opens his eyes slowly and stares at Leonard, and then scans the room and his heart sinks.

Sherlock sits, tied to a chair in the middle of the bedroom, a gag in his mouth. His eyes stare directly at John, his face neutral but his eyes are filled with worry. Blood flows heavily down Sherlock's face, matting his dark curls against his head and painting red on the detective's face. John closes his eyes briefly at the sudden flashback of Sherlock tied up in Baker Street all that time ago.

"Moriarty got tired of waiting." Leonard declares, his voice indifferent and conversational, two tones not meant to be mixed. John bucks his hips up and struggles against the binds on his wrist. He can feel the rope tightening and the skin bleeding, but some things are more important. John tries to elbow his gag off but the sound of fist connecting with flesh sidetracks him.

Leonard stands superior, looming over the bleeding genius. Sherlock's nose is leaking profusely and Leonard fist is still clenched, his knuckles wet with crimson.

John yells through his gag. He tries to plead and he tries beg Leonard to hurt him instead. Nothing comes through, it's just incoherent grunts and noise.

Sherlock reels and straightens on the chair again, his eyes slightly unfocused but his stance stubborn. The genius looks briefly in John's direction before staring tenaciously at Leonard.

The intruder sends another fist into Sherlock's face and then another into the detective's bare midsection. John screams, tears falling helplessly, he kicks his legs to try to get free, if only he could get free.

John shakes his head to try to calm himself, the sound of flesh against flesh conflicting and interrupting his thoughts. John can't think straight, all he can do is watch, cry, and scream muffled yells.

Leonard stops beating on the detective for a second and looks at the doctor's wet face.

"Moriarty was right, this is way better." Nathanial states nonchalantly, John's face grows red in anger. He screams obscenities and promises of revenge.

"Hockley, untie his gag." John stills at Leonard's command. _"Hockley?"_ John snaps his head towards the shuffling noise in the corner of the room in shock, sure enough Agent Hockley stands in the shadowed corner, his eyes indifferent. The man that John trusted walks over and unties his gag.

John head reels in confusion and betrayal and anger. Mycroft sucks at finding trustful employees.

"I trusted you." John spits at the agent once his gag comes off. The doctor's eyes are flaming with fiery anger.

"You've misplaced your trust Dr. Watson." Hockley responds before walking back to his shadowy corner.

"Hurts doesn't it, all the betrayal." Leonard's voice snaps John back to looking at the bleeding form of the genius. John feels utterly helpless, his wrists aching with pain, the skin rubbing raw. He stares at the detective as he tries everything to get free.

"Stop. Please." John begs, his heart clenching at the sight of the barely conscious detective. "Let us go."

"No." was Leonard's simply answer and he reinforced it with another sickening crunch to Sherlock's ribs. The genius lets out a muffled whimper and John's heart falls reluctantly, his mind goes completely blank.

"Me. Hurt me instead." John pleads quietly but firmly. Leonard stops mid-punch and stares back at the doctor.

"Well aren't you brave." Nathanial states and walks over to the bed, he jumps on top of John. The doctor shifts with discomfort, feeling the tingling sensation of a flashback coming. Images of Nathanial above him flash through the soldier, he writhes with fear, imobilised beneath the other military man, images of cuts and Leonard's hands enter John's mind.

The doctor closes his eyes against the intrusion and he writhes and bucks his hips against the man, trying to get him off.

"I can't, Dr. Watson. Moriarty told me to kill the detective and then bring you to him." Leonard states, his tone indifferent as always and that somehow makes John freeze in fear. There is no hint of evil, or enjoyment out of hurting Sherlock or the doctor and that makes Leonard scarier than anything John has every come across. John fears for Leonard's ability to do anything and not be conflicted by emotions.

"I will never go back!" John yells, both trying to alert someone in the manor to the intrusion and to label his defiance clearly.

"No one can hear you, Dr." Leonard states, looking straight into John's eyes with menacingly glee. "The lady is dead and I'm sure the other bloke will be soon. Hanley was glad to be able to see his kids again," John gapes at the man, speechless. "that was until I killed him for betraying the boss."

John can't help but let tears fall for the three bodyguards, even Hanley who betrayed them. They are dead, and it's John's fault, not to mention now Sherlock and John are at the mercy of Leonard and Moriarty's orders.

Sherlock lets out a whimper, both Leonard and John looks over at the detective, the genius's eyes are closed, his head lolling from side to side and John can tell his breathing is shallow.

John lets anger, fear, grief and longing filter through his mind for a second before making a decision.

"Please leave him, lets just leave now." John pleads, looking straight into Leonard's eye.

Leonard seems to contemplate the decision. "Moriarty said he had to be dead."

"Think about the extra turmoil you will put me in, the fact that I leave my fiance and I will never know if he lives or if he died in this room." John states, trying to keeping the begging out of his voice, "I will never know and I will forever be in pain because of it." John adds convincingly.

Leonard's eyes dart from John to the detective in scrutiny. They all sit in silent contemplation for minutes.

"What do you think Hockley?" Leonard asks after awhile, looking towards the shadows.

"I don't care, just get on with it, I would like to leave this place." was Hockley's simple answer. John thinks for a moment to plead with the agent, the man who he trusted and even maybe consider a friend, but Hockley's words ring in his ears, "_You misplace your trust, Dr. Watson."_ and John decides against. There is no one left to help them.

Except John.

Leonard pulls out a gun from his waistband that John didn't even notice in his Grief? Anger? Turmoil? Flashbacks?

"Alright, it will be fun to watch you squirm for the rest of your miserable life." Leonard states pulling at John's restraints, "No funny business." John just nods, waiting or his moment.

Hockley comes out of the shadows, his own hand on his holster, standing next to the bed. John's restraints come free and he can feel the blood flowing out of the raw skin. John ignores the pain and lays still. Leonard jumps off of him and turns his back on John and Hockley.

"Let's go Dr. Watson." Hockley says, grabbing the doctor and hauling him off the bed roughly. John's feet hit the ground and his stands up.

In one swift motion, John's fist connects with Hockley's jaw, immediately breaking apart the fragile bone. The agent screams in pain and plummets to the ground, but not before John grabs the man's gun out of his holster. John points his gun at Leonard just as the man turns around at the commotion. John is already across the room and his gun against the other man's temple.

"If you shoot me, Watson, the gun will shoot the detective here." Leonard voice is cool and his arm is outstretched, gun pointed directly at the unconscious detective.

"Yes. But you will still be dead." John replies with venom and clicks off his safety in a fit of rage.

"If you leave now, you will leave with your life." John remarks, his soldier side coming to the surface. Leonard stiffens slightly at the change of voice but otherwise remains still. The man's eyes scan the area, looking at the writhing form of Hockley on the ground and the overall emptiness of the room. With a sigh, Leonard points his gun at John.

John doesn't even register the movement, all he knows is that Sherlock is safe now, he doesn't notice the gun pointed at him.

"Fine." Leonard says finally, backing away towards the door, John's gun stays aimed at the man's temple, his arms unwavering.

"But before I go, I'm curious, have they turned into scars yet?" Leonard asks, and John falters for a moment, he's eyes go blurred with images of Nathanial on top of him and white hot pain on his torso. John, in a stupid move, looks down at his torso quickly and then back up at Leonard. The other man had moved back towards the doctor in the seconds it took John to look down at his clothed torso.

"Do you remember?" Leonard asks and John in frozen on the spot, his arms trembling slightly and his brain fighting for control, all the while, images that John would rather not remember are at the forefront. "I do, how you screamed beneath me." John's face twist in fear and anger as images of the bloodied knife, looking like a huge beast with red teeth in his hallucinated state, takes over his thoughts.

Leonard is right in front of him now, the man's gun still pointed at the doctor's chest.

"I wonder, if you would like to have a second round." Leonard remarks snidely, and before John can react, the man digs into his pocket and pulls out a knife. John almost drops the gun in shock, he feels the images of the knife, it's sleek silver handle biting at his nightmares.

The knife is a lot cleaner this time around but that doesn't stop John from backing up, completely at the mercy of the mad man in front of him.

John backs up, everything in the room fades away and he is back in the room, the room is blurred around the edges and his mind fogs. The lights above blind the doctor as Leonard is back lit and on top him. The knife swaying in front of his eyes, the red teeth of the blade sneering and barking. The doctor's back hits a wall and John slides down it pathetically, his knees drawn into his chest and his eyes never leaving the advancing Leonard, the knife shining in the sunset light.

John sees the man in front of him, the wicked smile, the white teeth. John remembers every cut the knife gave him, ever scar he will have for the rest of his life.

John's torso throbs with sympathy at the thoughts. John resists the urge to cry and scream, he sits in his horror silently.

_"Come on, Watson. For Sherlock."_ John's eyes bolt up to Leonard's face and his face twist in determination.

"Oh, has Captain Watson come out to play." John isn't taken aback by his army rank, in fact he just lifts the gun up, aiming directly for the man's head.

"Yes, yes he has." and with that John pulls the trigger.


	18. Countryside Confinement

Okay this is a short one, but I promise the next chapter will be amazing. There will be a wedding and turmoil, my two favorite combinations.

I'm so grateful for everyone's enjoyment and reviews. It's because of you guys that I'm continuing this story.

This is unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine, let me know if something is obvious or alarming.

Like always, I feed off flattery so review please.

Peace&Love

P.s. I love writing BAMF!John.

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><p><strong>I went back and added hospital fluff, enjoy<strong>

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><p><em>"Oh, has Captain Watson come out to play." John isn't taken aback by his army rank, in fact he just lifts the gun up, aiming directly for the man's head.<em>

_"Yes, yes he has." and with that John pulls the trigger._

* * *

><p>John sits there, his back against the wall, his knees draw into his chest, his demeanor in a silent shock. The lay limply in his hands, the powder burns on his hands sting invisibly. John stares at the dead Leonard in front of him. His eyes still open, staring at the ceiling. The doctor looks at the man in pity, he feels nothing, maybe he should feel sad or at least something. Instead, justification runs through him, not in a scary sense, he protected himself and the detective, and Leonard was a very bad man.<p>

John's eyes bolt up at a sudden noise, Hockley has since quieted, the pain making him pass out. John stands immediately and runs without a sound over to the opposite wall, just adjacent to the door. John clutches the gun in his hand tightly, bracing himself.

The knob turns and John gets lost in his soldier trance. His vision mixing with sand and adrenaline, John shakes himself into the present.

The door burst open and John doesn't even flinch, a dark shadow bolts into the room and instantly towards the detective. Alarms bells ring in the soldier and John moves quickly.

John is on the intruder in seconds, the barrel of his gun, still hot, placed against the man's neck.

"Don't move." John's rough voice is almost unfamiliar. John opens his mouth to speak again but instantly feels a gun on his own neck. The soldier tenses and tries to think of a plan. Meanwhile, the man in front of the doctor stands up straight and relaxes but doesn't move.

"Edgar will shoot you first, John." Mycroft states. John's eyes widen in confusion. He stares at the man in front of him. The curtained light shows he features now that John observes. The politician stands straight ahead, his suit unwrinkled and flawless. The doctor tenses in his own shock, dropping his arms straightaway. His limbs lay slack at his side, the gun, now an unpleasant weight in his hands, threatening to plummet to the floor in John's loosening grip. An unfamiliar hand wraps around the gun and the weight is gone. John doesn't fight, he lets the metal go. The doctor doesn't move, his head lowered in shame but his eyes remain fixed, watching as the politician turns to face him. John's eyes find the elder Holmes and they stare at each other for a minute.

"Sherlock!" John screams suddenly, after getting lost in Mycroft's gaze and the doctor's own thoughts, he finally remembers the events that lead up to this moment in time. John sidesteps the politician and runs to the genius.

John curses his stupidity and kneels next to Sherlock, checking his pulse, a weakening throb answers.

"Ambulance." John blurts, looking at Mycroft who nods, his tone full of anxiety and fear. Mycroft orders fill the room as the politician is behind his brother, untying the genius's hands with gentle ease. Sherlock's arms fall limply at his side and he begins to list off the chair. John catches Sherlock and guides him to the floor, cradling the young man in his lap.

As the three of them sit on the floor, the doctor probes the detective's injuries. The head wound is nasty, John's fingers stain with red as he catalogs the definite concussion. The detective's nose is still bleeding but not broken. John thumbs the genius's ribs gently, many bruised, some broken. A small moan of pain escapes Sherlock's lips and his eyes flutter.

"Sherlock? Wake up." John calls, cupping the broken man's cheek. Sherlock doesn't move but his eyelids open more, the hazy film of blurred vision coloring the younger man's pupils.

"J'hn." Sherlock mumbles and then winces in pain. His back arching slightly.

"Sh. I got you." John states, his panic subdued by sheer force.

"L'nard?" Sherlock asks, his eyes darting around trying to focus on anything. John moves his face a little closer to the detective, waving his fingers in front of the man's face, trying to get his focus.

"He's dead." John remarks apathetically.

"You 'kay?" Sherlock slurs, his eyes finally focusing on John in a suddenly concerned fashion.

"Yes, I'm fine." John answers, soothing the man. "But you aren't, we are getting you to a hospital." Sherlock groans.

"Ugh." Sherlock grunts and tries to shake his head, John holds the detective in place.

"No arguments, you are injured, we are going." John states firmly.

Sherlock huffs with annoyance and John laughs at the welcomed noise.

Sherlock's eyes close and John screams for him to stay awake.

"Fine." Sherlock remarks opening his eyes again grumpily. "'M tired." The detective says, exhaustion threatening to take over.

"I know, but you can't sleep, not until you get to the hospital." John says, his finger finding Sherlock's pulse point and keeping it there.

Paramedics flood the room just as Sherlock closes his eyes for good, John screams at the detective who is already into a deep unconscious slumber. John's panic starts to shine through his exterior.

The stretcher comes and they load the detective onto the board.

John and Mycroft follow silently as the paramedics maneuver the young man through the maze of the mansion and out to the ambulance. Without a word, John climbs into the ambulance and grabs the genius's hand. Tears flowing down the doctor's face in haste.

Mycroft watches in a very silent, very masked turmoil as his younger brother is carried away.

Minutes after the ambulance had left, Mycroft still stands looking down the long driveway of the mansion. Images of Sherlock dancing in his mind. The politician finally turns back towards the mansion and with a new determination, strolls into the house, ready to get to work.

He has people to interrogate and even more to kill.

* * *

><p>John sits in the waiting room, a surprise patience has overcome the doctor. His own exhaustion preventing him from going on a murderous spree to find Sherlock.<p>

Instead, John sits quietly and still, waiting for news, a cold cup of tea in front of him.

John doesn't know where they are, or what hospital is treating his fiance, some country hospital. The waiting room is small, not even comparable to St. Barts or any of the other London hospitals. This A&E is meant for the small population it serves and it shows.

The paint is old, and the room is small. The ceiling tiles are aged and yellowing as are the off white walls. John only scans the room once, briefly when he first entered the room, eventually he gets frustrated and settled for staring at the wall in front of him, focusing solely on Sherlock.

A lady sits in the same room, her eyes blurred and puffy, her nose red with sniffles. John doesn't pay much attention to her. On any other day he might have tried to deduce her for entertainment sake but now his thoughts remain on Sherlock and his well being.

Hours later, the doors open and a man in blue scrubs walk out, his head cap coming off and his expression neutral.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

John bolts up and walks swiftly over to the doctor.

"Yes." John states urgently.

"Are you his family?" The doctor asks suspiciously, yet with confident ease.

"I'm his fiance." John states impatiently. "Dr. John Watson."

"Oh," The doctor states, clearly taken aback by John's brashness or maybe, confidence as a doctor. "Dr. Watson, I'm Dr. Tyler." The doctor offers his hand out and John shakes it.

"Tell me?" John questions, the suspense ripping at the soldier's self-control.

"Concussion, three broken ribs, many more bruised, several lacerations and abrasions on his torso and face. He had some internal bleeding but we fixed it." Dr. Tyler rattled off and John became more anxious as the list went on.

The doctor must have sensed this because he quickly adds, "It was a close call, he could have easily died from his injuries but he got here in time. He is going to be fine Dr. Watson. He just needs to recover."

John sighs in relief but his body stays tense in anticipation. "When can I see him?" John asks eagerly.

"Follow me." The doctor remarks and turns, walking through the doors, leading John to his fiance.

* * *

><p>The beeping of the machines ring in the small country hospital room, a sound all too familiar for the doctor. If the older man had a pound for every time one of the them indulged in an extended stay in the hospital, John would for sure be rich by now.<p>

John is alone with the bed-ridden, bruise riddled detective who lies still, every now and then wincing in his sleep,

Once John had been led into the room by Dr. Tyler and left alone, the army doctor had done his own assessment of Sherlock's injuries.

The younger man's torso is a mess of contusions, deep reds and blooming blues litter the detective, over his stomach and his ribs. John carefully prods the younger man's ribcage through his white wrapping, Sherlock winces slightly but stays in his drug-induced slumber. Definitely bruised ribs, which will cause the genius a good deal of discomfort, but a minor nuisance compared to the pain of his two broken ribs.

John sighs looking at Sherlock's face. His beautiful cheekbones are seconds away from turning black and blue, a stark contrast to the pale skin. John can't help but feel pangs of sadness.

Looking at the hospital-ridden man makes John's heart squeeze with agitation and unbearable shame.

John tries to stick to their deal.

_"This is Moriarty's fault. Not yours."_ The doctor repeats over and over to himself, sitting next to the unconscious detective, their hands intertwined. Still, John's head hangs in guilt regardless.

"Oh, Sherlock." John exhales, exhaustion pushing at his mind. The flashbacks and exertion have taken their toll on the doctor, not to mention the fact that John, himself, is still healing from Moriarty's capture.

All in all, John can't help but feel sick of it all. He wants Moriarty gone for good, he just needs to be rid of the looming criminal. John is stick of distrusting someone instantly because his paranoia always screams Moriarty.

The doctor is done, done with looking over his shoulder every three seconds, no matter what town they are in.

John lets his anger and shame and thoughts have free reign across his mind for a while when a voice interrupts him.

"John." The sleepy voice calls out. John jerks his head up and meets the cloudy eyes. His gaze is focused and determined, even through the drugs.

"Hey." John says, letting out a breathy exhale and a beaming smile. Sherlock returns with a weak grin.

"Hey...yourself." The detective pants out, his face twisting with discomfort. One of his lean hands flies to his ribs and rest it there.

"Are you in pain?" John questions, knowing his own obviousness.

Sherlock looks over at the doctor with a haughty expression. It says, 'great observation, you idiot.'

John should probably be offended by the expression but the just doctor laughs and hits the nurse button.

Minutes later a lovely nurse comes in and increases Sherlock's dose with a annoying smile, and in seconds she is gone again. The detective says nothing to her, at all, the entire time. John worries, he knows how much pain the detective is experiencing if he doesn't take the opportunity to annoy and possibly traumatise another person, especially a member of the hospital staff.

Another minute or two passes with the detective breathing raggedly, the sounds sharp and torturous, his face contorted into a permanent pained state.

John is helpless, he holds the younger man's hand and let's Sherlock squeeze with so much force, the doctor's hand starts to lose circulation.

Finally, Sherlock relaxes and the anxiety of his body starts to float away, limb by limb, until the genius is laying limp in a goofy drug induced haze.

"You know I love you right?" Sherlock blurts out, his eyelids half closed and his hand making circles in John's palm.

"Of course." John answers back, smiling. "Go to sleep." John is half-way to sleep himself.

"You didn't say it back," Sherlock cries, his eyes shooting open and his face twisted into petulance. The man would have crossed his arms for dramatic effect, but his entire body aches with soreness.

John just stares, amused at the man-child's ability to still be tenacious while riddled with that many bruises.

"You are completely right." John states standing up, he leans over the detective who looks up at him smiling with victory.

"I'm always right." The genius exclaims smugly.

"Shut up." John commands lightly and then presses his lips against the detective's cheek, "There are so many reasons," John starts, and moves to the genius's other cheek, "why you are my best friend," John trails kisses along Sherlock's jaw who smiles in pleasure, "my partner in...justice," John's lips move just below Sherlock's bottom lip and the detective is whimpering in protest, "and my fiance." John adds, ghosting over the detective's plush lips and back to his cheek. The genius lets out a indignant huff and John laughs.

"And one day, when you aren't half asleep with drugs and pain, I will list each and every one." John states, pulling his lips away from Sherlock's face and looking straight into the detective's eyes who just beams back at him.

"But right now all you need to know is that I love you," John says and leans down again, finally pressing their lips together, anticipation and pleasure coursing through the both of them.

"And that I will always love you." John adds finally once he breaks the kiss for breath. The doctor stands up straight, looking down at the smiling detective whose eyes are closing against his will, but the grin plastered on his face stays with permanent approval.

John grabs the genius's hand again as Sherlock lets sleep take him, the doctor placing soothing circles against the younger man's hand, feeling like he could accomplish anything.

* * *

><p>"Let's go back to London." John states three days into Sherlock's maddening hospital stay. The detective had already gotten bored two days back and he was unconscious for the first day.<p>

"What?" Sherlock asks, his expression dripping with incredulous disdain. John memorises the look, it's not often he surprises the detective.

"It's too dangerous." Sherlock reels in his expression and twists his face into concentration, his eyes ablaze and studying John, his deduction face.

"It's no safer in the country." John rebuttals, his eyes unwavering from Sherlock's intense gaze. "I want to be in London."

"Moriarty is there." Sherlock says nonchalantly.

"Moriarty is here, he is everywhere." John sighs with exasperation, his stands up and starts pacing in his boredom, his countryside confinement. "I'm tired of running away from him. Besides he has proved that he can get to us no matter what, I would rather be comfortable in London." John explains, his feet still and his eyes examining his cuticles.

Sherlock stares at the doctor through knitted eyebrows, he can see the consternating doctor and his heart clenches.

"Okay." is Sherlock's simple answer. John's head bolts up and looks into the detective's gray orbs.

"Okay? That's it." John asks, disbelieving.

"Yes," Sherlock states, "I have one condition."

"Name it." John says, disbelieving.

"Let's get married first, I'm sick of not being attached to you in every possible way." Sherlock says and it is probably one of the most vulnerable and caring thing the detective has ever said.

John smiles, tears of joy threatening to spill. "You want to get married at the mansion."

"Yes, the grounds are beautiful this time of year." Sherlock states simply.

* * *

><p>Next the wedding,<p>

also if you guys want some hospital fluff in between there I could be persuaded, if enough people show interest to add some.

Let me know.


	19. Mycroft the Bridezilla?

Hello all, I'm not going to lie to you, I think this may be one of my favorite chapters.

As for the medical-ness in this chapter, I'm not a doctor, I don't even no if this is possible, I'm a victim of television medical dramas. Don't hate me.

I love everyone who reviews and reads, you guys are so awesome.

4,000 words exactly. Boo-yah.

**I went back to the last chapter and added some hospital fluff, take a look.**

Peace&Love

* * *

><p>A week passes in bliss.<p>

Sherlock is released from the hospital after a five day stay and by the end of the week they are getting married.

John never thought he could be so happy.

Mycroft, the closet romantic, surprised everyone with his preparations in the wedding. By the end of the week, the house is bustling with cooks, housekeepers, cakes, and food. Not to mention the triple amount of security.

Sherlock and John changed bedrooms immediately and now live on the opposite side of the mansion, aware from the memories.

The doctor finds the amount of people in the house strangely different. Before, he could walk from one end of the house to the other without seeing a single soul. Now, despite it mass, at the turn of every corner, John is running into someone, a housekeeper or the even the wandering bodyguard. It makes John wonder, How many people are actually in the house?

With the elder Holmes overtaking the planning and execution of the wedding, Sherlock and John find themselves with nothing to do and with the recent assassination attempt, they now spend all their time together, usually in the Library away from the noise and constant clattering.

They both sit in there now, John actually trying to read a book while the detective hides from Mummy Holmes, who showed up the previous day to 'help'.

"I didn't know your family were such romantics." John says conversationally, the detective's head in the doctor's lap. John strokes the curly hair as he reads his book.

Sherlock shifts stiffly with a wince as his ribs remind him of his healing. The detective huffs a scowl in his sulkiness, refusing to answer. John just chuckles and continues reading.

* * *

><p>The day of the ceremony finally arrives and the house is relatively silent, everyone relaxing in the hours before their works pay off.<p>

John only had one condition for Mycroft, the doctor wanted to get married in the garden, the one with the cobblestone path and the crisp grass.

Of course Mycroft, with the help of Mummy made the garden extravagant and beautiful, much to the chagrin of Sherlock, who isn't taking the whole 'fuss' in stride.

"I don't really care where or how beautiful it is, I just want to get married." Sherlock huffs trying to get his suit jacket on through his stiff ribs. John walks over and gently glides the detective's arms through his sleeves smooths out the wrinkles.

"Nice try." John replies through narrowed eyes, noticing the manipulation underneath Sherlock's words. "You are the one that wanted to get married at the house." John adds, moving to his own tuxedo and finishing getting dressed.

"Yeah, but I didn't know Mycroft would turn into his own form of a bridezilla, making sure everything is perfect." Sherlock says, now sitting on the foot of the bed, his eyes watching John dress.

"You really need to stop watching American telly." John says chuckling, walking over to the detective and planting a kiss on the man's forehead. "If it makes you feel any better, you don't have to look at it or anyone, you can just look at me." John adds, smiling.

Sherlock beams back at him and pulls the doctor into a deep kiss, one that almost makes them late for their own wedding.

* * *

><p>The grounds are beautiful in the afternoon sun, the grass is bright and still crisp, the cobblestone paths shine in beauty and flawlessness. The altar is a small arch, intricate with simple flowers that were taken from the surrounding garden and they are interwoven through it's checkered spaces. Opposite the alter sit two white benches, lined up on both sides of the aisle. The white benches are contrasted with dark green vines that mix with more flowers. The sight is simple yet entrancingly beautiful.<p>

The ceremony is small, Mycroft, Lestrade, Harry, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mummy Holmes, and even Anthea are in attendance. John and Sherlock exchanged their vows and declarations of love as the afternoon sun lay over top of them, smiling at the nuptials.

All the women smiling, even Anthea who's blackberry lays in her lap, probably the most caring the PA will ever get. Mycroft and Lestrade, sit next to each, Mycroft smiles with a goofy grin, his heart swelling with pride at his masterpiece and brother's matrimony. Lestrade alternates from looking at the couple in the alter and the man sitting next to him, the DI smiling at the politician's smile, their hands interlinked naturally.

The small crowd sits on the benches, their clothes simple and festive adding to the beauty of the ceremony. The surrounding area of the gardens is plagued with seemingly invisible security, their black suits actually blending into the shadows.

As Sherlock and John share their first kiss as partners, the guests stand and the small garden erupts in applause.

And then it explodes in pandemonium.

John never imagined such a blissful moment could turn so chaotic and grief-stricken in a manner of seconds.

Lestrade is the one who acts the fastest, the DI stands feet from the couple, he sees the red dot splayed over John's back before anyone else. In a split second, the Inspector leaps forward and drags the newly married couple to the ground, just as the gunshot interrupts the peaceful ceremony.

John and Sherlock grip each other tightly as they are unceremoniously pulled to the ground. Sherlock's pained voice is overshadowed by the screams and commands of those around them.

The rest of the guest hit the grass fast at the sounds of the gunshot.

Mycroft is already screaming into his cellphone and the nearby guards are scattering into the grounds in search of the gunman.

John lifts his head from Sherlock's tight embrace. Sherlock's face is twisted in pain, his hands flying to his broken ribs.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John asks with worry.

"Yes, fine, just caught me off guard." The detective replies through clenched teeth. Sherlock calms himself through deep breaths and reigns in his pain and panic.

The proverbial dust has settles and John looks around, slightly confused at what happened. The doctor heard the gunshot and he knew that someone had pushed the two of them out of the way but whom?

John looks around and immediately notices the limp form of Lestrade, laying on the ground next to him.

"Greg!" John screams suddenly, as he spots the crimson stain through the DI's suit. John pushes away from Sherlock gently crawls instantly to the Inspector's side. "Lestrade!" The frantic voice of the doctor catches the politician's attention, who turns towards the commotion. John kneels next to the bleeding DI, ripping off Lestrade's jacket and swiftly changing into doctor mode.

Crimson substance stains Lestrade's white shirt as John rips off his own jacket, placing it onto the DI's bleeding torso.

"Greg." Mycroft exasperates uncharacteristically as he falls on his knees next to the unconscious DI. The wedding guests all gather around the men, the women holding back tears and Sherlock, clutching his side, staring in shock.

"Sherlock, I need an ambulance." John yells in the detective's general direction. Sherlock's mobile is out and dialing for paramedics. Mycroft grips the DI's hand silently and looks at him in distress.

"Greg." Mycroft's voice is soft and sad, a vulnerable noise that startles John.

"What can I do?" Molly's voice appears out of nowhere.

"Here, Molly, push down." John states, pointing to the jacket. Molly applies pressure to the wound as John takes Greg's pulse.

"My.." a small voice echoes loudly. Mycroft's eyes tear themselves away from Greg's bleeding body and towards the man's eyes. The elder Holmes leans down and puts their foreheads together in a declaration of pure devotion. The movement nearly causes John to falter in his doctor mode, the move so unlike the Mycroft, John has ever seen.

"It's okay, Greg, you are going to be fine." Mycroft's voice reassures the DI, tears falling down the politician's eyes.

"Greg, Stay awake." John commands confidently, looking into the DI's eyes while feeling for the man's weakening pulse.

"Okay, sir." Greg say jokingly, but a racking cough ruins the confidence. The group just gazes in horror.

"I'm...dying." Lestrade states through puffs of exhaling breaths. Mycroft's body tenses with a sudden rage.

"Gregory, you are not." Mycroft yells assertively, pulling his head up and looking sternly at the DI. "Stop thinking that." Greg just stares at the politician his breathing shallow.

"He's right, you are going to be fine." John states, cataloging Lestrade's body.

Greg smiles and then his face twists in pain and his coughs turn violent. John rolls Lestrade onto his side and the DI yells in agony.

"Molly keep the pressure." John orders as Lestrade coughs. Blood seeps out of the Inspector's mouth uncontrollably.

Mycroft looks up at John, pure, unadulterated panic and fear reign free on the politician's face. Lestrade's moans of pain and wheezing breath causes Mycroft to almost lose it.

Lestrade wheezes and his breathing becomes even shallower in mere seconds.

Suddenly, Lestrade starts choking, his breathing stops. His eyes contort in fear.

Lestrade mouth gapes open and close trying to get breaths of air into his lungs.

"Sherlock!" John yells, turning to find the detective standing above them.

"Two minutes." Sherlock answers.

John forces the panic away and calms himself. They may not have two minutes.

The army doctor tenses and he focuses all his energy on what he needs to do.

"The bullet nicked his lungs," John says to no one in particular but he senses Mycroft freezing in panic at the doctor's words.

"I need something sharp and a plastic pen." John orders and the guests clamber.

John is handed a pen and he dismantles it, grabbing the plastic tube.

"I need something sharp to cut a hole." John screams, looking up from Lestrade to the panicked looks of the guests.

"John." Mrs. Hudson's timid voice cuts through his thoughts. The doctor looks up at his landlady and sees her clutch bag open and a small knife in her hand.

The crowd stares at her for a second, each person showing signs of shock and amazement. John just grabs the knife.

"What? London is dangerous for a little old lady with a bad hip." Mrs. Hudson says confidently, defiantly. In any other situation, there would have been chuckles but now everyone's emotions are frayed and silent.

"Sherlock, give me your lighter." John looks up at the detective who looks sheepish, "Oh come on, I know you have it."

Sherlock jams his hand into his pocket and pulls out his simple lighter.

John sterilses the knife with the open flame and looks at Mycroft, "Mycroft, this is going to hurt him." John tries to say with softness, but the urgency of the situation makes his words choppy and chaotic, but still reaming calm and put together.

"Do it." The politician answers automatically and grabs hold of Lestrade, who is still gasping for breath.

The whole exchange maybe taking five seconds.

John cuts a deep hole in Greg's torso, above the bullet wound and in between his ribs. He jams the pen sheath into the hole. Greg screams in pain and tries to struggle away. Mycroft holds him firm and watches in unmasked fear and amazement, tears falling shamelessly down the elder Holmes's face.

Wheezing air fills the silent air, Lestrade's face instantly relaxes and his body stills.

John rips a part of his sleeve off and wraps is gently around the plastic, careful not to block the hole.

The sound of sirens send a sense of relief through the doctor who keeps his fingers on Lestrade's pulse. Molly still pushes hard on the bullet wound and Mycroft stares at Greg, their eyes locked in a silent conversation.

Paramedics enter the garden, Mycroft and Molly move out of the way and hands are all over the DI.

John informs the paramedics of the injuries and jump at the chance to help them.

In minutes, Lestrade is on the stretcher and headed to the hospital. The wedding guest following behind.

John backs away as they get to the ambulance doors and Mycroft jumps in next to the wheezing DI.

The doors shut and the vehicle drives away, leaving seven people, their faces gaunt with silent, paralyzing torment.

John stands in front of the cluster of people, his doctor mode breaking away painfully. Desolate anguish and shaky panic course through him, hostile anger intermixing with his emotions. In a sudden, abrupt motion John pivots on his feet, his face red, the same shade as the crimson stains on his fingers.

Something primal burns through John, a horror so anxiously deep that it morphs into downright anger and flows freely. Images of Lestrade bleeding before him flash through John and before the doctor can react, his hands are trembling and his teeth clattering with one destination in mind.

Sherlock stands right behind him, his face twisted in confusion as he looks at the doctor. John marches right pass him and everyone else in the small congregation. The soldier stops short in front of Anthea, who is lingering in the back of the crowd, her face dumbfounded.

"What the hell happened?" John screams at the woman, her body tense and her face twisted in shock. Her blackberry lays limp at her sides, her whole stance riddled with distress.

"I..I don't know." She says quietly. Her eyes darting around to the other guests who just stare in shock at the fearless doctor's anger and the situation itself.

"Find. Out." John commands through gritted teeth. He knows he is being unfair, yelling at the PA is not the best way to get his anger out but it's the only thing John can do instead of running into the grounds in search of the gunman.

Anthea looks around once and something snaps in the PA. She stands up straight, nodding, the assistant's phone already in front of her face, with quick determination. She hurries off n the opposite direction, placing the mobile to her ear and already yelling threats and obscenities into the object.

Any lasting amount of adrenaline or anger quickly leave the doctor and exhaustion takes place as he watches the PA leave the pack.

* * *

><p>"Ma'am." The man stands in front of the woman who is typing furiously on her phone.<p>

"Yes," She replies, her eyes never leaving the screen, her face contorted in a committed gaze.

"We found him." The man states professionally, his hands at his side, his suit bulge slightly where his gun and mobile are sheathed.

"Moran?" Anthea asks quietly.

"Yes, Ma'am. We got him before he left the grounds." The PA sighs with relief.

"Hold him, I'm sure Mr. Holmes would like a word." Anthea says.

"Yes, Ma'am." The agent remarks and leaves the PA alone in the room.

Anthea stares out the window of the room before bringing up her phone and dialing her boss's number.

* * *

><p>John sits in the waiting room, staring at the same yellowing ceiling tiles in the same small room. John didn't really ever want to see the inside of this countryside A&amp;E so soon, or really ever again and yet here John sits, planted firmly next to the two Holmes brothers.<p>

This time around, it all seems a bit more nerve wracking, maybe because the two Holmes are being eerily quiet in their own reverie.

Mycroft is silent, and for some reason the doctor isn't surprised by this. The neutral position the politician is frozen and it seems oddly like him. His back straight, his legs crossed in front of him, the politician's hands resting with relaxed distress on his thighs. Mycroft's face remains neutral and eyes blank, locked in a unwavering stare, the yellowing wall in front of him, somehow extremely intriguing.

However, Sherlock's reaction does surprise the doctor. The detective stance mimics the elder Holmes almost exactly. The detective's back is straight and his legs crossed. The scene would be comical under any other circumstance.

The detective's trance confuses John, the doctor didn't realise how deep the detective and the inspector go. John knew that the DI is Sherlock's oldest 'friend', using the term lightly, and that the DI is practically responsible for getting Sherlock clean and away from the shooting up curly haired man that once lingered London's streets all those years ago. He just never imagined this.

Sherlock's sociopath facade breaks apart in front of the doctor as he sees the deep level of care.

John continues to stare at the two men in front of him for the next hour, contemplating each brother with interest.

Who would have known that a certain DI would cause such a shock for both the Holmes brothers.

At some point, Mycroft's phone rings shrill and loud. The politician ignores it and John hopes that the British Government isn't crumbling from the Mycroft's absence.

The doors to the surgery swing open abruptly and a familiar mans walks out. His graying hair and confident stance indistinguishable. This is the same surgeon that John had met a week ago.

"Gregory Lestrade?" Surprisingly, John is the first one up and heading towards the doctor. John hears Mycroft and Sherlock follow mere seconds later, their collective shocked reverie gone.

"Dr. Tyler." John greets the man in scrubs, offering his hand in acknowledgement.

"Dr. Watson," Tyler replies, their hands meeting in a professionalised manner. "I wish the circumstances were different." The familiar doctor states. John just nods with sad admittance.

"How is he?" Mycroft's voice is quiet, the politician wringing his hands nervously. Tyler looks at the two Holmes, he recognises Sherlock vaguely, but Mycroft is unfamiliar.

"He's alive." is all the doctor in scrubs says before turning back to John. "You saved his life."

John doesn't know how to take the statement, it's obvious that the army doctor's training was helpful in the situation but the compliment causes John discomfort.

"The bullet entered on his right side, lower torso. It ricocheted off his ribs and implanted into his lung." Tyler states, addressing the three men as a collective. "Dr. Watson was able re-inflate the lung once Greg stopped breathing. Without that and he would have died." John senses Mycroft and Sherlock shifting uncomfortably at the doctor's words. John watches Mycroft starting to pale considerably.

"What are his chances?" John questions, still watching the politician's engrossing eyes as they stare at a spot above the surgeon before them.

"We removed the bullet with ease, I'd say they are good, Very good," Mycroft lets out a puff of air, "We fixed the hole in his lung and he'll have respiratory difficulties while he heals." Dr. Tyler states, "he's on a respiratory machine right now to help him."

"How long?" Mycroft asks, his eyes finding the man in scrubs again, his attention focused and driven. John can see the politician coming back around to his usual self, even if he does look a tad pale still.

"48 before he can breath without the machine and another 24 before he can breath normally, give or take." Dr. Tyler answers, "And during which we have to keep an eye out for infection."

Mycroft sits down suddenly, a sigh escaping his lips, his back remains straight but his face still colorless.

"The next 72 hours will be touch and go, but we are hopeful." Dr. Tyler says confidently. John sighs.

"Is he conscious?" John inquires. Noticing the tense form of Mycroft and the unusually silent detective.

"No, not yet, we have him on morphine while he recovers, he is expected to wake up in the next eighteen hours. You can see him now though." The doctor remarks and with a very serious, pointed look, he stares at the army doctor. "John, the machine, when he does wake, will be very disorienting." Dr. Tyler's expression conveys everything John needs to know.

John nods, "Don't worry, none of us plan on leaving. We will be here. Thank you Dr. Tyler." John says and the men of medicine shake hands.

The man in scrubs leaves the three men in silence. The waiting room lit artificially as the sun has long since departed the sky.

John turns to stare at the Holmes brothers. The eldest's head in his hands, the usual immaculate and tidy man's resolve threatening to break out of love.

Sherlock has placed himself on a chair next to Mycroft, his face twisted in thought.

_"At least that's new,"_ John thinks, preferring a thinking detective to a silent and eerily scary genius.

John wonders idly if this is what it felt like for them in the past months, watching Sherlock suffer through Moriarty's clutches of John. He tries to shake the heart-wrenching thoughts from his brain.

Moriarty.

John feels suddenly angry. His irritation shines through his self-control, threatening to explode. Of course this is Moriarty's doing, the evil man couldn't leave them alone for one day, even on their bloody wedding day.

John turns his body away from the white walls and the suffocating grief. The doctor lets his anger course through his body with ease, hating Moriarty for a new round of nightmares, a new round of bloody flashbacks.

He hates Moriarty for ruining this day for the doctor, hell ruining it for Sherlock, even Mycroft with all the work he put into it.

He mostly hates the criminal mastermind for the turmoil, the torturing despair that Mycroft is suffering through. The elder Holmes may be an insufferable git, but nobody deserves this, especially if the victim is Lestrade. Upstanding, tolerant Lestrade who is responsible for so much happiness in peoples' lives.

As the three men wait for a room number, John resists the urge to punch all the walls in the immediate area and instead he stares into the dark countryside, wondering how far Moriarty's tendrils of evil reach. How many more people are going to be hurt because John?

* * *

><p><strong>Guys, I need ideas for John's wedding band inscription, ASAP<strong>


	20. Moriarty's Return

**Important Note: I need an inscription that Sherlock would put onto John's ring, short but meaningful, if someone gives me an idea I will put it in the story.**

I was rereading this story from the beginning and I couldn't help but notice how much I evolved with this story, not only with writing but with thoughtfulness and story-telling. I hope you guys see that too, and that it doesn't suck.

I've got this story planned out to the end, but once I'm there, I've got some plot bunnies on reserve for sure, one that I've started writing, it's exciting.

Anyways, back to the story,

P.s. Mycroft goes BAMF in this one, I hope that's okay, it'll be a little less of John and Sherlock in this chapter but don't worry, once they return to London, newlyweds, everything will be centered around them.

Peace&Love

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><p>A mobile ring shrills uneasily in the empty waiting room. John immediately recognises it belonging to Mycroft and yet, the politician remains still. John sincerely hopes that Mycroft isn't that important in the government, because the way he is ignoring calls, there would surely be the collapse of a democracy somewhere.<p>

"Mycroft, answer the call." Sherlock's voice speaks before the doctor has a chance to. The elder Holmes looks at Sherlock for a second, his mouth agape and his eyes bright with relief, sadness, grief and anger.

"Yes, yes of course." Mycroft says absentmindedly digging into his pocket, dragging out the piercing object with a swift and professional movement.

The politician stares at his phone before sighing. John looks over to the elder Holmes and watches as Mycroft stands and walks away.

"Holmes." The older man states with authority, even though his body language and everything about this situation is grave and weakening.

John watches the politician turn a corner and disappear from his vision. The man's body was slumping with an almost defeat, the site is sad, so sad. John wonders if he could have prevented it, if he went with Mycroft when the politician suggested they split up, maybe then Lestrade and in turn Mycroft wouldn't be in this position.

_"And neither would Sherlock."_ John thinks tearing his eyes away from the now empty hallway to look at his silent husband, the word sending shivers through John.

They are married. Married.

John hides his smile from the detective, finding it inappropriate in the situation, with Lestrade shot and all.

The detective notices nothing and his face is firm, still thinking but John can see the underlying despair, Sherlock isn't even bothering to hide this time. His emotions are consuming him, John can tell.

The doctor hopes dearly that it's because they trust each other and this is for John's eyes only and not evidence of Moriarty finally breaking Sherlock.

John doesn't think he could handle Sherlock broken, he would love him the same and such, but his anger would sky-rocket. The fact that Sherlock could possibly be broken terrifies and ignites John.

"Stop that." Sherlock's voice permeates the doctor's thoughts, causing John to look up. Sherlock's face is soft and one of his hands swiftly wrap itself around John's left hand, effectively stilling John's guilt and doubts.

The doctor relaxes and leans back in the uncomfortable chair, letting the detective fiddle with the doctor's ring distractedly, twirling it around John's finger with a comforting simplicity. The doctor stares down at the site and snorts without humor.

"Not really how I suspected to spend my wedding night." John mutters letting out a forced smile, the words are out before John can measure the appropriateness of the statement.

Sherlock stops twirling the ring and then shoots his head up, looking at the doctor wide eyed. For a second, John regrets his words, cursing himself inwardly, this room is neither the time nor place but then Sherlock laughs, a true hearty laugh that makes John's smile real and his worries forgotten.

The doctor and his detective share the laugh for a hysterically long time, every time one would settle down, all they have to do is look at the other and their giggles and chortles would start back up again. Finally, out of breath and sides aching, the laughs die down and the waiting room becomes silent once again, but now with a more pleasant blanket, all gloominess gone and hope prevailing.

"We are married." Sherlock says once his laughing subsides and his fingers grasp the doctor's hand tighter.

"Yeah." John replies looking down at their intertwined hands and the matching rings. The doctor almost cannot contain his joy, his disbelief. He can't believe, after the emotional roller coaster of pain and emotion for the past year, that something this blissful could happen, and for a second he pushes the turmoil and drama of the past couple of hours away and lets himself feel an ounce of happiness, lets himself feel giddy about being newly married. If only for a little while before tense hours of waiting and watching the painful recovery of Lestrade present themselves and their effects it will have on the Holmes brothers.

John gazes up and meets Sherlock's eyes, who has been staring at the older man, probably reading his mind by the look on his face.

They look at each other for a long time, their smiles blinding them.

"I love you John Watson-Holmes." Sherlock states finally, leaning over and placing a kiss upon John's lips. John reciprocates wholeheartedly.

When they break apart, "I love you too Sherlock Watson-Holmes." and the doctor places his own kiss on the detective.

The clicking of shoes on the linoleum alerts them of Mycroft's returning. The detective breaks apart, placing himself an appropriate distance away, dropping their hands.

The movement seriously confuses John. All evidence of their previous intimacy gone.

Whereas, John is confused, all Sherlock can think of is when John was in the hospital all those times and Mycroft and Greg would sit together and hold hands, their love on display. The detective doesn't fault them. In a very sudden, very uncharacteristic show of compassion, Sherlock doesn't want his brother to be suffocated by their relationship, especially when Lestrade, the man the politician loves, is currently in such a state.

This situation is all too familiar to Sherlock, the hospital waiting rooms, all the times in the past year that John has been hurt and forced to go through horrible things. In fact, the detective frequently looks over to the doctor, just to make sure he is there and not the one in the hospital this time. And every time the detective is reassured his mind relaxes in relief.

The clicking stops and the politician stands in front of the detective and his doctor.

With one look at Mycroft's expression, John stands up immediately, at attention. The detective follows, standing straight beside John.

"John, I need to ask you the greatest favor, one that I will be ever indebted to you." Mycroft's tone is serious and John just nods. Sherlock stares silently, his thoughts already finding out what has got the elder Holmes so worked up.

"Mycroft, What's-" John starts, confused but the politician holds a hand for silence.

"I have to leave." The older man starts and John opens his mouth to argue but Mycroft's expression stops him. "I...have some business to attend to." Mycroft stares at a spot above John's head and sneers at it.

John is an idiot in most things, but now, he can see revenge plain as day. So many soldiers lay in their hospital beds staring at walls trying to find ways to avenge their friends, their now missing body parts, John is no stranger to revenge. He is also no stranger to Mycroft, and so much like Sherlock, the stubbornness runs in the family. If the politician needs to leave to deal with the shooter, which John would bet that is the case, there is nothing the doctor can say that would dissuade the politician.

"What do you need me to do?" John asks, knowing that talking Mycroft out of his tale of revenge would be pointless and breathless, just as it was when John would try with the soldiers, each one bitter and angry, not listening to a word John had said.

"You saved his life John, and one day, when this all blows over, I will express my gratitude properly." Mycroft states, leaning into John's personal space with severity. "I need someone here I can trust."

John nods, "I won't leave him, not until you come back." John states, realising that this acquiescence of trust is foreign for Mycroft and to ask the doctor for such a favor is incredibly out of the realm of Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft literally sighs with relief, before grabbing John's still crimson stained hand and shaking them with a firm grip, surprising John.

"I promise, I will be stay here until _you_ tell me otherwise, and no one else." John adds firmly looking straight into the elder Holmes's eyes. Mycroft's eyes are full of so many emotions that John never sees come from the man, so many that John only catches a few, relief, anger, joy, and grief. "I care about him too." The doctor whispers.

Mycroft nods once, curtly and then straightens. The politician staring to take over, already Mycroft's stance is more confident and unwavering, he brushes his suit with a swipe of his hands and his face turns cold and neutral, with a hint of his usual sneer. The man turns himself into the Mycroft they all know.

"Text me with updates?" Mycroft deadpans, turning to leave.

"Of course." John replies.

Sherlock and John watch as Mycroft walks down the hospital hallway, his shoes clicking against the tile, the man himself fading into the distance.

"Gregory Lestrade?" A nurse calls out, breaking Sherlock out of his reverie who nods. John continues to stare after the long gone politician. The whole exchange crazy and unlike Mycroft that John can barely register anything else.

_"The man planned your wedding. He has feelings._" John thinks to himself. It's right, the politician was in charge of planning the wedding and it turned out beautiful. John shouldn't be surprised by the show of emotion and vulnerability.

But it's so...not Holmesian.

"He is in room number B23." A voice calls out and Sherlock tugs at John's hand, the doctor snaps out of his shocked trance and looks expectantly at the detective.

"Let's go John." The genius states, maneuvering them around the chairs of the waiting room and towards the DI's room, a man very close to both Holmes's hearts, and frankly, John's too.

* * *

><p>"Sir?" Anthea's nervous voice echoes the room. She is one of two people in the room. The PA's eyes are wide with shock and her blackberry lays at her side.<p>

Her boss stands before her, in a state that Anthea has never witnessed before.

The older man is shaking, with rage, anger. Even Anthea, who is familiar with her boss hasn't seen this lack of self-control in the man for ages.

Mycroft doesn't hear his employee, his eyes fixed on the two way mirror, at the man on the other side.

The interrogation room lies deep inside the top secret complex, the highest level of security has to be bestowed in order to even get within a kilometer of the complex.

Mycroft stares at the offensive excuse for a human being for a long time, letting his emotions free in the private setting before meeting the man who shot Lestrade, who shot his Inspector.

Finally, the shakes stop and Mycroft relaxes, his emotions still strung out and tiring but now he can control it.

He brushes his suit once and looks towards Anthea who is staring wide-eyed at her boss, not really sure how to react to what just happened.

Mycroft just nods and Anthea scrambles to open the door into the adjacent room.

The politician enters the room, his stride confident and, frankly, terrifying, Anthea even feels a sense of fear and even pity, (very small, the man is evil, second in command to Moriarty, and shot Lestrade, the pity is very small) for the military man.

"Moran." Mycroft chides before sitting down opposite, hands steeple together on the table. "You will tell me everything about Moriarty or you will die trying."

* * *

><p>The room is small, four walls with a window. John sits with his back to the window, the sunlight shining through the open frame, letting in the cool countryside air. The ex-soldier faces the door, his entire body on alert.<p>

It's been a day and a half and the salt-and-peppered haired man has yet to wake up, much to the chagrin of Mycroft, whose texts constantly and John has to sadly text back with the same updates.

_He hasn't woken yet. -JW_

_I don't know yet. -JW_

_The doctors are puzzled. -JW_

Those same texts over and over again and John's mood, along with Sherlock's and probably the politician's are steadily going down hill in despair and anxiety.

Besides Mycroft, John has taken it the worse. Mostly from a medical point of view. The doctor said eighteen hours and then Lestrade would be awake, and as a doctor, John knows it was a guess at best, but the blond haired man is growing frustrated., it's been too long.

Not to mention, the fact that John's promise to his brother-in-law has made the blond steadily crazy with determination, so much so that John's exhaustion is at an all time high.

Sherlock has left briefly, but not before begging the doctor to leave with him, for an hour at the most.

John couldn't, Mycroft trusted him to stay and even though he knows the detective is looking out for the soldier's best interest, John kind of resents him for suggesting it. Not once, while either of them have been in the hospital, between consciousness and coma, did they leave each others side, not once.

They were never alone, ever and Sherlock is quick to suggest leaving the DI alone in the most crucial point.

John can't do it. It wouldn't be right.

So, the genius went alone, going back to the mansion to see Mummy Holmes and Molly, who have stuck around in light of the events, keeping an eye on the newlyweds and the recovery of the Inspector.

Not to mention, John is still in his tuxedo and that is steadily getting more and more uncomfortable as the hours tick onward.

With the detective gone, that leaves John alone with the DI, with only the guards outside the tiny hospital room for company. However, John ignores them, on the very principal that they are Mycroft's employees. The doctor doesn't find a lot of trust in Mycroft's choice of employees not since the the last two out of four betrayed the soldier and the other two lost their lives protecting John.

So, not a lot of faith going on with these bodyguards.

In addition to having no faith in the politician's goons, John demanded that his gun be present and Mummy Holmes was all to happy to obliged, sending it with another goon, a mere hour after Sherlock and the doctor had settled into the DI's room.

Thank you Mummy Holmes.

In the meantime, as he waits for Sherlock to return or Lestrade to wake up, whichever comes first, John sits on his hospital chair beside the older man, the gun tucked into the doctor's waistband and his free hands gripping the bed-ridden man every so often, anchoring the DI to the present and to add comfort.

In truth, the doctor has kind of missed the Inspector, his wit and tolerance, the doctor hasn't had a real conversation with Lestrade since before he was taken by Moriarty, let alone a beer at the pub. John misses those occasional pints.

Now, John is practically antsy with anticipation to just see the man's eyes again, no matter how cheesy it sounds.

So as of now, John and Lestrade with the protection of the soldier's gun, are the only ones in the beeping, warm room.

John doesn't know at what point he falls asleep, but his exhaustion from the past days, between the wedding and Lestrade being shot, tug at him with embracing tendrils. It's no wonder the blond man lasted as long as he did, especially with the genius not there to keep him awake.

The doctor, finally, succumbs to sleep and during his sleep, just reaching the dreaming part, the images start. They are running wild and the emotions fuel the pictures, turning them steadily into nightmares. John's body is moving slightly, trembling in his slouched position on the uncomfortable chair, trying to fight his imaginary demons in his subconscious.

A voice calls out to John, soft and gently, the doctor has to listen close, it's familiar and accented.

"Hello, Johnny." The voice says, and John doesn't know if it's from his nightmares or if it's in his wake. A sudden hand brushes against the doctor's chest and the soldier freaks out.

John's eyes are open so fast that the man in front of him backs up slightly, his face still plastered with a smile.

The face remains looming directly in front of the doctor. John is up and out of his hospital chair in milliseconds, putting as much distance between the consulting criminal and himself. The window now rests to John's left side, the soldier instinctively angling himself between Lestrade and the evil man who stands in front of him, leaning against the wall.

In the process, John's gun makes it's appearance and now rest in the doctor's steadying hands, aimed directly at the man.

"Don't be rude, Johnny." Moriarty says, wiggling in his finger in a back and forth motion, muttering a 'tsk' 'tsk'.

"Moriarty." John snaps, "It's very stupid of you to be here." John continues, his voice confident and firm, a complete 180 of how he is feeling. His insides are screaming at him in terror, his mind threatens to run and hide, anywhere away from the criminal mastermind.

John refuses to run, even if his mind is doing flips of anxiety and fear. He, instead, stands his ground, Moriarty has plagued the doctor's nightmares and his daydreams for far too long. The criminal mastermind is everywhere, his smile menacing and ubiquitous. _"No more, Watson."_ John tells himself.

John plants his feet firm, preparing for the hardest thing the soldier will ever have to do in his life.

Besides a defiant stance, John cast a sideways glance at the sleeping form of Greg, if John retreats cowardly, the DI would be left alone. That is completely unacceptable in Mycroft's eyes, but most importantly John's. Never, in the doctor's mind, would he ever leave someone else, especially Lestrade, in the clutches of Moriarty.

"How did you get in?" John asks, glancing towards the door, cursing Mycroft's men and their betrayal.

"Dull. I wanted to see you, my plans have been...sped up." Moriarty speaks, ignoring the pathway that John's eyes have taken, instead shifting closer at the doctor's distraction.

"What plans?" John asks, turning his head back to the criminal mastermind who is now closer. John takes a half a step back, gripping his gun firmly, his knuckles white.

"Moran is gone." Moriarty declares softly, stopping his advance, his eyes darting around the room and for the first time, John actually sees an emotion pass through the consulting criminal, sadness. "But, there no need to worry about that. I've come to get you. " Moriarty sings, ignoring the minute of vulnerability and continuing to stare at John with an alarming glee in the criminal mastermind's eyes.

The doctor takes a step back again in shock.

"There is no way...I'm EVER going with you." John yells through gritted teeth, clicking the safety off the gun and placing his finger on the trigger expertly.

"Shame," Moriarty's face falls in a mock sadness, and with a quick nod of his head, he looks towards the unconscious DI.

John follows his gaze, looking away for a second. A red dot appears on the horizontal form, John's wide and shocked eyes find Moriarty's again.

"Why are you here?" John asks, the first evidence of emotion flowing through his voice, desperation.

"Because, I enjoyed are time together." Moriarty says simply, getting closer, his face erupting in a grin. John lets the mastermind advance slowly, the Irishman smiling at the obedience.

It's instant, John is pushed back to the room, Moriarty looming over him, the same twisted smile plastered on the criminal's face as John lays beneath him, restrained. His notices vaguely his arms falling to his sides as the images flow through his head, temporarily capturing the doctor's thoughts and focus.

_"No, John Watson, get yourself together."_ The doctor chastises himself and shakes his head, closing his eyes, backing away from the man. _"The flashbacks will not control me."_ John shouts in his mind.

"No." John shouts. "This is not happening." The doctor's hand is unwavering and the gun resumes his position, pointed directly at the criminal mastermind, who is millimeters away now, the gun almost touching the Westwood suit.

"Don't be rude, Johnny." Moriarty coos in a reproving sing, nodding a head towards Lestrade, the red dot as ominous as ever.

There are two things floating in the doctor's mind. Moriarty has loomed over the doctor's thoughts and memories far too long, granted it's been a mere two and half weeks since the last time he saw the criminal mastermind. Two weeks of complete, emotional upheaval and John is sick of it. Moriarty doesn't get to win anymore.

Another thought, the doctor made a promise to Mycroft, his brother-in-law, for the protection of Lestrade, it was a request but John took it as a command and the soldier within is anything but diligent.

Without another thought, John is moving, placing himself directly in the sniper's line of fire. The red dot appearing across his broad back, a vast canvas, an easy target.

"What are you doing John? Being noble?" The criminal mastermind chuckles, but his face falters slightly.

"I'm going to shoot you, and then when your sniper pulls that trigger, it will be hit me and Lestrade will be safe, and you will lose." John deadpans, pressuring the trigger faintly, proving his point. "It's time for you to leave, Moriarty."

Something in the doctor face must have conveyed his seriousness because Moriarty's face faltered even more.

"Don't be ridiculous-" Moriarty starts, moving towards the doctor again, reaching for the gun.

"You want me back, you said so yourself. I would rather get taken out by this sniper than go with you." John states, calling the mastermind's bluff and pulling the trigger with slightly more pressure. Moriarty stops in his tracks, holding up his hands.

Moriarty's smile turns into a sneer. "You are surprising, John Watson, I'll give you that. No wonder the detective keeps you around." The Irishman laughs, "but it won't be for much longer."

John doesn't falter, he glares at the criminal , his gun hand steady, his back still to the sniper. His decision made.

The two of them stare for the longest time, silent except for the beeping machines.

"I must be going." Moriarty says suddenly, turning his back to doctor, heading for the door. John contemplates shooting him right there, to rid them all of the horrid man forever.

"You will be seeing me again." The criminal mastermind calls, turning around to blow a kiss to the doctor. John flinches but doesn't move. "Oh, and congratulations on your wedding."

In a flash, Moriarty is gone and it takes John a minute before his hands fall in relief. His limbs trembling with exhaustion and his mind is reeling, but the adrenaline keeping him focused. John turns around towards the window. He looks down and the red dot is gone.

John closes the blinds and with a look at Lestrade, the DI is still unconscious and fine, the doctor collapses on the floor out of relief. His knees hitting the linoleum hard but John doesn't notice. His mind is freaking out. The first time he is face to face with Moriarty since he was kidnapped. The man that has plagued his nightmares, the man who tortured him physically with drugs and then later turned his life into an emotional roller coaster with letters and betrayal. John's eyes unfocus as the memories of Jude and his pleading face, not to mention Smithson and Anderson.

John can't breathe, his mind going into overdrive from adrenaline withdrawal and panic. The doctor tries to take deep breaths through his shock but struggled gasps prevail.

The door burst open suddenly and John's head snaps up, unseeing. The soldier's gun is pointed and his finger on the trigger again.

Moriarty is back, John can feel it.

"Easy, John." a familiar voice calls to the doctor, John can't see him through the fog. The soldier blinks a few times before finally getting his vision to clear. One of the agents guarding the door, Agent Ward, is approaching John, flanked by two agents whose guns are drawn.

John sighs in relief and drops the gun, it clatters to the floor. The agents fall into the room, checking everything. Agent Ward is approaching the doctor who remains on the floor, taking deep breaths, his memories trying to convey flashbacks but the doctor refusing to let his brain be in control.

Another set of footsteps enter the room.

"What the hell?" The detective's voice echoes. John doesn't look up in his daze. He hears the genius stomping further into the room and the thud and slide of a duffel bag being dropped midway.

The detective throws himself onto the floor, next to John, immediately cupping the younger man's face, making the doctor look up at him.

"John," Sherlock exasperates worriedly.

"Moriarty." John declares, looking into the stormy cloud eyes of the genius.

Sherlock stares at the doctor, who's body is trembling and his face is mixing between confidence and an anxious mess. John, however, is calming down significantly, the threats of flashbacks rescinding and he closes his eyes at the warmth of Sherlock's hands and presence creating a protective cocoon around the doctor.

* * *

><p>Thoughts? Opinions? I still need that inscription.<p> 


	21. He's Awake

Oh my lovelies, How much I love you all,

Some of the inscription ideas I have gotten have to do with heart and various things around that. I appreciate everyone's feed back.

Not much longer now, and this story will be finished.

Where do you guys think this story should go.

Reviews are great.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>John stares into the cloudy eyes for a long time, calming himself down, trying to get his breathing together. The doctor sits on the cold ground, trying to get rid of the dirty feeling that Moriarty's presence left. He occasionally glances towards Lestrade's form, making sure the Inspector is still there and the sniper didn't come back and take a lucky shot. The doctor's eyes dart around the room unfocusing before closing them, trying to dispel his fears and his doubts.<p>

Moriarty isn't coming back. John sighs in relief.

"John, are you hurt?" Sherlock's baritone asks and John opens his eyes to hands ghosting over him, the detective looking for wounds.

John shakes his head and his knees ache somewhat from being on the floor. The doctor looks around to each of the agents before suddenly yelling.

"OUT! All of you, out!" The command is uncharacteristic of John and Sherlock finds himself startled by the loud noises of the doctor.

The agents are startled too and nobody moves.

John, his frustration and misplaced anger fueling him, jumps up, tumbling out of Sherlock's embrace towards the suited men.

"John-" Sherlock starts, following the doctor.

"I said get OUT!" John yells, ignoring the movements of the detective, and instead, motioning his hands in a shooing gesture. "I don't want any of you in here." He yells again.

John screams and the agents scurry out. The door snapping behind them. The doctor is fuming, his face red with anger and frustration, his legs trace a straight line as the doctor paces, trying to walk the emotions out of his body.

"John, what's wrong?" Sherlock asks timidly, walking over to the older man, seriously concerned.

"Moriarty was here and they" John points to the closed door, "weren't."

The detective stares at him in confusion.

"Moriarty kills those in his way, that is if he can't send them away." John screams, his arms flailing and his emotions messy. "Those men weren't around, one if not all are working for Moriarty." John continues, his breathing fast and abrupt.

Arms are around the doctor and John stills in his anger before becoming abruptly calm, even leaning into the embrace, wondering slightly if he is being too paranoid.

_"No, one can never be too paranoid when Moriarty's around."_ John thinks to himself.

"Your brother has the worst criteria when it comes to his employees," John says ruffled, "I'm surprised Anthea isn't secretly evil. It seems like everyone else that Mycroft hires is." John states huffily.

Sherlock chuckles humorlessly and just hold John as the doctor comes down from his extremely high, extremely lonely anger pedestal.

They are silent for a while.

"What did he want?" Sherlock asks eventually, his voice apprehensive, like he really doesn't want to know, but his body is tense and ready, preparing for anger.

"You know the usual, I want to take you away, I miss you." John laughs darkly before going silent, gripping Sherlock closer, inhaling the man's scent for comfort and preventing the genius to go running after the mastermind in a aggravated swirl of his coat. The doctor hangs on and Sherlock soon relaxes, his body retreating with defeat.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock says into John's hair, his own fears immoblising him, threatening to take over.

"Not your fault." John deadpans. He reels in his emotions, he no longer feels the beginning of flashbacks, his mind is moderately calm. "It's Moriarty." John adds truthfullly, the criminal mastermind is the one to blame not Sherlock.

"I should have been here." Sherlock observes quietly.

"It wouldn't have a made a difference." John remarks, but truthfully, it would have made all the difference. There would have been no way to protect the two, Lestrade and Sherlock, in that situation. Too many variables, and John would have done anything to protect the both of them. If the detective was present, John can only imagine one situation working out, leaving the three of them alive, John would have had to go with Moriarty in order to protect the detective and the DI.

John wouldn't be standing here if Sherlock had been present, it was a good thing the detective wasn't there, but John could never say that out loud.

Instead, he says, "I'm not hurt. It was just words."

Sherlock scoffs, "That's beside the point, the fact that he was here..He could have-" Anger cuts off the genius's words and John flinches inwardly at the emotion.

John hugs his husband closer, both fully aware of how different Moriarty's return could have been.

The couple is immersed in their own thoughts when a sudden wheezing noise disrupts the fading tension.

"Is that?" Sherlock questions lifting his head up and looking at the injured DI. John breaks the embrace immediately and flies over to Lestrade.

"Greg?" John calls, checking the man in front of him. The DI's eyelids remain shut but John can see movement beneath. "Greg, can you open your eyes?" John calls again, gripping the older man's hand and squeezing.

The DI eyelids flutter again and John holds his breath.

Sherlock is on the other side of the bed, looming and watching, his hands at his sides, but his face trembling with apprehension and hope.

"Lestrade, open your eyes." John demands this time and the DI responds. His eyelids quiver and then open a fraction.

"Good," John remarks, pushing the nurse button. The DI is starting to realise his surroundings, and that includes the tube in his throat. With small movements, Lestrade starts to struggling.

John grips the man's forearm, preventing Lestrade from moving. He looms over the Inspector, finally Greg's wandering and hazy eyes focus on John, a look of alarm in his eyes.

"Greg, listen, the tube is helping you breath." John pronounces. Lestrade doesn't seem to hear him, the older man's movements are getting stronger as the DI moves into consciousness.

Sherlock grabs Lestrade's other forearm at John's insistence and the man writhes beneath them, his panic getting the better of him.

"Lestrade, calm down." Sherlock calls but Greg is too far gone. His eyes are wild with fear and panic, his head is jerking from one side to another, trying to dispel the tube in his throat.

The door bursts open and Dr. Tyler, along with a few nurses charge inside. The small room becoming suddenly, very crowded. John doesn't move and nearly does the detective.

"Dr. Watson?" The countryside doctor asks.

"He just woke up, he's disoriented." John replies hastily, whilst Sherlock leans down to whisper words into Lestrade's ear.

"Lestrade, It's Sherlock. You are fine, you have to calm down." The genius whispers over and over again. Lestrade struggles even more violently, his back arching and his strength pushing against John's grip.

"We are going to have to sedate him. He's going to pull stitches." Dr. Tyler says pulling out a syringe. He plunges the needle into the IV, just as Lestrade's struggling reaches dangerous levels.

"Lestrade! Calm Down!" John orders and for some reason, the DI listens, his struggles weaken and his eyes find the commanding voice. With a puzzled and pleading look, Lestrade finally calms, whether that has to do with the drug or John's command, the doctor doesn't know but John just stares into Lestrade's eyes for comfort.

"You are going to be fine." John soothes, squeezing the man's hand again, as Lestrade's eyelids close and his body goes still.

Once the DI is still, John lets go and backs up, letting the nurses do their job, checking vitals, IV drips.

Sherlock retreats too, his eyes still glued to the DI.

"He's fine, he's awake." John says walking over to the detective, wrapping an arm around the slender waist.

"Yeah, I know." Sherlock remarks, pulling his eyes away from the DI and looking at John, who smiles back. "Mycroft will be pleased," The genius adds.

"Yes he will," John declares, pulling out his mobile and sending off the happiest text of the day.

_He's awake. - JW_

* * *

><p>The man sits in the cell, his nose is bloodied and his body is broken in so many places. He stills shakes from the electric current and he can't quite get the water out of his lungs.<p>

He is miserable, but remains diligent in his defiance.

"He doesn't love you, you know." His captor says, "He is a psychopath, he is incapable of love."

The broken man grunts in obstinately.

"We are going to kill him." His captor remarks, "Unless you want to save him."

The broken man looks up painfully into the captor's stony eyes, a split second vulnerability showing in his eyes.

It's all the captor needs.

"Moran, tell me how to take him down, I will promise his safety." Mycroft asks as his pocket shrills.

_He's awake. -JW_

"Okay." Moran wheezes out and Mycroft has two reasons to smile

* * *

><p>John is sitting in his hospital chair like normal when the politician saunters in. Mycroft looks haggard, a feat that John never thought possible. The doctor assumes that Mycroft has gotten just about as much sleep as John has, which is none.<p>

The detective, however, is like a cat, he can fall asleep in any position if exhaustion claims him. Case in point, the detective is hunched in a chair opposite John, his limbs folded in on himself and his head cocked to one side. It looks terribly uncomfortable, the genius in a mess of twisted limbs. The younger man snores slightly and John just shakes his head in amusement.

John has heard nothing from Mycroft since he sent the text six hours ago, and in the meantime Lestrade's sedation has kept the DI calm and sleeping. An improvement to his almost comatose state previously.

So when Mycroft enters the room, John is slightly surprised that the politician is there, unannounced.

_"He always shows up unannounced, why would this be any different, Watson."_ John thinks to himself and snickers inwardly.

Mycroft enters the room wordlessly and moves to Lestrade's beside, not looking at the twisted form of his brother or the doctor. His eyes are only for Greg. It occurs to John that the politician hasn't seen the DI since the wedding ceremony, almost two days ago.

"He's fine. They had to sedate him." John whispers into the dark room, barely a noise level above the breathing machine and it's beeping.

"He was disoriented." Mycroft says, not a question, a statement, deduction.

"Yes." John whispers in return. "It should wear off within the hour." John adds in observation.

John sees the silhouette of Mycroft's head nodding in acknowledgment.

John stares at Mycroft, watching the politician caress the DI's cheek and squeeze his hand. Another weird intimate moment that makes John feels like an intruder. The doctor looks away and lets his mind wander, his arms heavy with exhaustion and his body shutting down. The doctor is only going on sheer force of will.

After a long time of silence, Mycroft eventually speaks.

Thank you, John." He states, his voice thick with foreign emotion, and for a second John is grateful they are in the dark. "For everything." The politician adds.

"You were informed of Moriarty then." John states, of course the politician knows, he probably has a direct feed of the CCTV from the hospital room to his mobile.

That thought makes John shiver, the statement 'big brother' has never been so painfully and ironically correct.

"John, I-" Mycroft starts before he is interrupted.

"Mycroft," John states, leaning forward in his chair slowly, his limbs sore and his shoulder aches, "I'm only going to say two things about the situation. One, just like Sherlock, you aren't allowed to blame yourself. This is Moriarty's fault, not yours, not Sherlock's, not Lestrade's, not mine. Only _his_." John sneers at the last word.

"And two, The most important thing we need to take away from this situation is the fact that you suck at picking bodyguards." John says lightheartedly and Mycroft even chuckles slightly.

"Yes, I'm going to have to review my process of how employment works." Mycroft replies, and even though John can't see it, the politician is smiling slightly.

The silence once again stifles the room, and for the first time, John feels trapped. Maybe it's the exhaustion, maybe it's the fact that Lestrade is awake (kind of) and on the road to recovery, or maybe it's the presence of Mycroft and his innate ability to bring out John's emotions, even though most of the time they are angry and irritated thoughts. This time, all John can think of is Moriarty and how is presence is still in the room, his constricting and echoing sing song voice ringing into John's brain every time the doctor moves his head or the machine beeps in the same tone.

"I'm going to go get a coffee, would you like one?" John says abruptly, standing up, his limbs creaking with the movement.

"No thank you, John." Mycroft replies, not looking away from the DI, everything in the politician's being focusing on the Inspector.

Silently, John slips out of the room, but not before planting a small kiss on Sherlock's sleeping forehead.

He exits the room, not even bothering to look at the probably betraying bodyguards that still guard the door.

John wanders aimlessly down the quiet hallways, partly looking for a coffee machine and the other part trying to clear his head.

He feels like another thought about Moriarty is going to send him into a tailspin, and John knows his emotions are frayed and exhaustion fueled.

Suddenly, the walls are too confining and John starts to panic, he hallucinates Moriarty on the walls, around the corners, he has to get out.

John speed walks to the exit, tearing himself down stair cases and politely around the working staff. He sees the exit of the hospital and breaks out into a run.

The cold air is refreshing and it burst onto John's skin. It's been almost two days since John has been outside. His breathing is frantic but it's slowly down significantly as the cold air wakes him and his emotions up. The air is so open that for a second, Moriarty's clutches seem distant and impossible. It's too open and vast, no way can Moriarty latch onto John.

A bench sits nearby, and John places himself upon it, his body hidden in shadow. John closes his eyes briefly, letting the tension and the anxiety, fear, anger, irritation, and agony surround him, crippling the doctor's breathing with a weighted ease.

He thinks of Lestrade, protecting the man, willing to sacrifice his life for the DI. The doctor thinks about promising his brother-in-law and upholding the promise diligently. He remembers the bits and pieces of his stay under the drug-induced haze of Moriarty's clutches. He remembers seeing Moriarty again, the same sick smile plastered on the Irishman's face.

He remembers all of the turmoil and John lets himself freak out, he lets himself feel the agony and the torture. The blond man goes all the way back to the catalyst, the home invasion. Montague and Leonard torturing him. The ex-soldier absentmindedly flexes his long since broken hand, the cold air wrapping around it, making it twitch and ache slightly at the memories. He remembers Montague's chapped lips against his and the second bullet wound in his shoulder. John leans forward, gripping his upper body as he falls apart.

He remembers the alleyway and the mutilated corpse of Montague last Halloween, the cuts and message morbidly clear in John's memories. The doctor remembers the betrayal of Jude and the bodyguards, watching Sherlock getting beaten into the inches of life, willing to go with Leonard to save the detective.

John remembers the bullet in Leonard's brain.

The agony, the torture, the fear, its all tearing John apart.

_"John Watson, you can do this. You are strong."_ The doctor tells himself over and over again, forcing himself to see all of the happy memories, Sherlock always by his side. Talented, gorgeous, protective Sherlock. He thinks about all of their kisses, the slow passionate ones and the frenzied harsh ones.

John thinks of the wedding, marrying the man he loves and getting to spend the rest of his life with him. The passionate first kiss they shared as partners.

_"John Watson, you can do this. You are strong."_ He repeats, and the agony starts to leave. His shoulders roll as the tension leaves next, the happy memories combating John's fears and doubts.

John sighs as the weight fades and leaves completely, shunned by John's optimism and happy memories.

The doctor opens his eyes into the night, with a small smile and his mind rejuvenated, the doctor pushes himself up, a new motivation in his step. The doctor, with one last look into the vast, mastermind-less night, turns back into the hospital, back on his original hunt for coffee.

* * *

><p>John turns the corner and he stops immediately, the entire hallway is empty, the bodyguards that are supposed to be guarding the door to Lestrade's room are gone. The doctor panics, he drops his empty, plastic coffee cup and it makes a weak 'blick' against the tiled floor.<p>

John's gun in his hand instantly. The doctor pushes himself against the wall of the hallway. Silently, the soldier slides along the wall, quickly making it to the door. John extends an arm and places it on the wooden object, ready to push it open on the count of three.

One.

Two.

"JOHN!" A shout suspends John's thoughts and with a swift movement, John whips towards the voice, his gun extended and aimed.

The hands of Sherlock Holmes shoot up in surrender.

"Jesus Sherlock." John whisper shouts, immediately dropping his gun to his sids. The detective looks puzzled for a second before practically running to the doctor. "You can't just sneak up-" John starts before lips are on his, forcibly but entirely pleasant.

John's gun clatters to the floor and his hands find Sherlock's scalp, massaging through the genius's hair in passion.

"Wait, Sherlock." John says, pushing away, suddenly remembering the lack of bodyguards.

"John Hamish Watson-Holmes, Don't ever do that again." Sherlock says, gripping John's jumper tightly. The doctor stares at him in confusion.

"What?" The doctor exasperates.

"I woke up and Mycroft says you went to get coffee by _yourself_. And He let you." Sherlock yells, pushing himself onto John's lips again. It's takes another second for John to understand.

"You thought Moriarty was back." John says, pushing, very reluctantly, off of Sherlock's lips.

"Yes, and none of us could find you." Sherlock mumbles into John's hair, as he hugs the doctor, not letting go.

"Us?" John asks.

"Ward and the rest of Mycroft's goons." Sherlock answers.

John pushes away from Sherlock and turns around, looking at the door. "You left Mycroft and Lestrade by themselves." John screams, bends down to pick up his gun and places a hand on the door knob, again.

"John." Sherlock calls, but John shushes the genius. He turns the door knob and pushes it open a sliver, grateful the door doesn't creak.

The site makes John's heart melt.

No dangers, but John watches through the moonlight, Mycroft's forehead is attached to Lestrade's, who seems to be awake. The man isn't struggling like the last time John saw him awake. Instead, the DI's hand is stroking Mycroft's cheek. The politician is whispering declarations of love and that's when John pulls the door shut just as quickly and silently as he opened.

He turns towards the detective, his eyes a little misty from the intimacy. Sherlock just gazes back.

John crosses the hallway and sits on the bench opposite the door, his gun resting on his knee. While the bodyguards are out gallivanting god knows where, the soldier will have to take sentry duty.

"John." Sherlock says, sitting next to the doctor.

"I'm sorry to have worried you. I didn't even think." John starts, his eyes darting around looking for dangers, a little distracted by the conversation. "I just wanted coffee."

"I woke up, and you were gone." Sherlock states thickly, "And Mycroft let you go alone." The detective is clearly harbouring resentment towards his brother.

"He has other things on his mind." John defends, "Nothing happened, I'm fine." John stops scanning the hallway and grips Sherlock's hand, looking right at the detective.

"I didn't know that." Sherlock states, clearly angry. "And we searched the hospital, there was no sign of you." Sherlock's eyes are full of desperation, relief and grief.

"I'm sorry, I must have missed them." John states, not wanting to admit to the agitated detective that he stepped out for fresh air.

"Or it could be because of the fact that you left the hospital." The genius snaps, squeezing John's hand a little painfully.

"_Busted."_ John thinks to himself.

"John, it is incredibly dangerous." Sherlock begins, his hand loosening.

"I know, I know, I just needed fresh air." John shouts suddenly, "I'm so sick of Moriarty controlling my life. " The doctor exasperates in his exhaustion, standing up abruptly, all of his tension and emotion that he parted with outside, suddenly making their way to the forefront of his mind again. "I can't handle his stifling presence anymore, Sherlock."

The detective stands up and wraps his arms around the doctor. "As long as Moriarty's around, we have to take precautions." The genius states eventually, whispering it into John's ear.

"I know." John sighs defeated not willing to fall apart again, he accepted his memories and his feelings outside, he brings up happy memories as he revels in Sherlock's embrace.

Finally, John talks.

"We are still going back to London." John adds defiantly, looking up at the detective.

It's Sherlock's turn to sigh with defeat, "I said we would."

"I would like to stay until Lestrade is released or at least well enough to be transferred." John asks and the detective nods enthusiastically.

"I also want to pick my own bodyguards." John states bluntly and Sherlock chuckles.

"I think, given the circumstances, that is a good idea." Sherlock declares, sniggering into John's hair, the two of them wrapped protectively against each other in the middle of the hallway and for a second John is hopeful, that maybe as along as they are together Moriarty won't get them.

If only that were true.

* * *

><p>I hope this isn't too out of character for Moran, but since we don't really know what he is like in the series I wrote him kind of vague.<p> 


	22. A Christmas To Remember

This is really close to the end, like second to last chapter. I hope it's not too soon.

I can be persuaded into a sequel if there is enough feedback for one.

Now for logistics, I know the timeline is kind of screwy, but I'm going to break it down.

Starting at Halloween, that's obvious, October,

Than when John gets the rings roughly three months have passed, putting them into late January, early February. I'm going to go more towards early February about seven days in.

By the time John is given back to Sherlock, it's already another week into February,

They move to the estate, another week.

By the time they are married it's early March, like the second or third day into March.

I hope that makes sense, I know it's a bit confusing but hey it's fiction so I can bloody well make the timeline however I want. (No, I'm just kidding, It would tear me to pieces if I made the timeline shitty, like put April in between July and August. I would never do that to you guys.)

Besides that, I hope to hear your feedback, yes?

Good. Onward.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>March, in all it's bloody glory, between the after effects of Lestrade healing and Mycroft's top secret handling of Moran, finally turns into April.<p>

Then April turned into May and so on and so forth.

John and Sherlock moved back to London, much to Mycroft's discontent and in a flash, Christmas is just around the corner, and this December is very important for the doctor and the detective, they have a lot to celebrate.

Moriarty has since vanished from that March day, all those months ago in the countryside hospital. Rumors erupted around June, stating that Moriarty has long since left London and is residing (hiding) in Switzerland. John wholeheartedly, absolutely, foot stomping-ly, refused to let Sherlock leave England, there is no way the detective would get to go down to the continent and find out. The doctor is very adamant about the detective running off, half-cock, chasing after dangerous masterminds.

The detective, very, very reluctantly agreed. That was a fine sulk when John won that argument, and even to this day, John still doesn't know how he won it.

Sherlock knows, of course the detective stayed. John, not only brought out his puppy eyes, but the detective's memory is pristine and every time Sherlock thinks about defying John's pleads, images of the doctor in that room, Moriarty torturing John and Leonard cutting the soldier up, all of those terrifying images plague the genius, and so he stays.

He stays so he can be around John constantly, because what if something bad happens? What if Moriarty is laying in wait for Sherlock to leave? What if he will take John once Sherlock follows, what actually could be, a wild goose chase?

It's not a risk Sherlock is willing to take and so he acquiescence to John, but not without attitude and general dismay. The detective would give almost anything to go down to Switzerland and take out Moriarty for good.

Anything but John.

They all lay in wait the first few months, their guards always up, preparing for Moriarty's move.

However, as June turned into July and then all of a sudden October was upon them, they had to continue their lives.

Lestrade, long since, has made a full recovery, even going back to the Yard late July. The politician even paid for a slight reconstructive surgery, the DI's lung was damaged significantly and with the surgery the surgeons were able to make Greg's lung as good as new. The day the DI returned to the Yard was a gratefully cheery one, they even through a party, which John drank and Sherlock sulked...typical.

So as October turned into November and then December crept upon the doctor and the detective, everyone thought Moriarty was in permanent hiding, not coming back to London for a long while.

If only that were true.

* * *

><p>As it has been said, Christmas is right around the corner and Lestrade, Mycroft, Sherlock and John have many things to celebrate and be thankful for.<p>

And it just so happens that Mummy Holmes also agrees and has offered to throw a small family dinner.

Mycroft and Sherlock, individually and adamantly decline.

It isn't until Lestrade and John get in cahoots with each other that both of the Holmes brothers are forced to change their minds, needless to say, they will all be in attendance for dinner.

The night starts out early, John and Sherlock arriving early in the afternoon to Mummy Holmes's estate. Unlike the countryside Holmes, which was lavish and old. The mother Holmes's mansion is huge and modern, like something out of art deco, very chic. The design sleek and totally unexpected in John's opinion.

John, of course, gapes as the car Mycroft sent pulls up to the long, tree shaded driveway, opening up at the end of it to reveal the enormous house.

"If you are so rich, why are we living in Baker Street?" John jokes lightheartedly, the detective still is peeved that the doctor is actually making him go to dinner for the holidays. The genius huffs in annoyance and resentment, not looking up from his phone. This huff is different, yes it's annoyance but something deeper revolves in it, a reason to why Sherlock's wealth is not as grand.

The doctor, surprised slightly that the conversation has never come up, opens his mouth to ask, but the car stops and the door to John's right is opened.

Wordlessly, John exits and moves to the side, waiting for the genius to slide out.

John has met Mrs. Holmes maybe twice. The first time, it was merely in passing, a case in which Sherlock had gotten himself into trouble...again. That time it was bad, the detective almost didn't make it, John politely smiled from afar as they crossed each other in the hall. It wasn't until days later that John put two and two together, finally connecting that Sherlock's mother visited and was actually alive. John assumed the Holmes brothers were orphans.

The second time, ended in Lestrade getting shot. Yes, John didn't officially meet his mother-in-law until the week they got married. Not very traditional, but nothing is traditional when it comes to being a Holmes.

Mummy left before John got to have a chat with Mrs. Holmes back in March so this would be the third time seeing the eldest Holmes.

John is slightly nervous all over again. Sherlock's mother is pleasant, undoubtedly so, but the aura of her and her presence is intimidating to say the least. Not to mention that it all boils down to the fact that it's John's mother-in-law.

The door creaks open and a woman, tall and lanky like Sherlock but her stance firm and calculating like Mycroft, sweeps from the encasing doorway right towards John and Sherlock.

John watches Mummy Holmes, dressed in an elegant evening dress, purple ribbons of color mix with the white fabric, descend upon her youngest. The doctor is very glad that he made the both of them dress dinner jackets, even though Sherlock wanted to arrive in his bathrobe.

"Sherlock, dearest." The woman says, grabbing for the genius's hands and gripping them tightly with endearment.

"Mummy." Sherlock calls back, leaning into a cheek kiss, the welcoming so endearing and motherly that John is actually surprised.

Mrs. Holmes stares into her son's eyes for a second before addressing John.

"John." The woman says fondly, dropping the detective's hands smoothly and moving to grip John's own. The doctor complies and raises his hands slightly to greet her.

"Mrs. Holmes." John replies calmly and with as much respect as he can muster.

"Oh my, the formalities are definitely not needed." The mother Holmes response, leaning forward and placing a small kiss on John's cheek, John smiles at the gesture. "One day, when you are comfortable, I would prefer Mummy," The woman states, looking John in the eye. John's smile grows fonder. "Until then, Violet if you please."

John, smiling warmly and genuinely squeezes Violet's hands before responding. "Thank you, Violet."

The mother Holmes squeezes back with as much excited fervor. "Nonsense, John. You are family."

John has to resist the urge to hug his new favorite person.

"Come, Come, your brother is already here." Violet states, not letting go of John's hand and pulling him into the manor. The beckoning gesture of pulling John into her home isn't what startles John, it's the fact that when Violet spoke of 'your brother' she was looking at the both of them, including John.

John has never felt so accepted in his entire life and he let Mrs. Holmes drag him into the manor and straight into the parlor like he belonged there.

John didn't even noticed that Sherlock was following behind, his sulk getting particularly worse.

Violet tugs the doctor into the room, Lestrade and Mycroft already placed upon one of the couches, curled politely against one another.

The parlor is massive, furniture everywhere. The fireplace is crackling, it's light bouncing everywhere, the mantle framed by two windows on either side. Just like the outside, the inside is very modern, it's design sleek but bold. Reds and whites are painted on the walls and the furniture is a dark contrast of purple, somehow it all matches and it all is essentially Violet.

Violet drags John to one of the couches, a particularly small one, called a love seat. The purple, lush furniture sits adjacent to the settee that Mycroft and Lestrade occupy. Two chairs complete the square of furniture, one sits opposite John and the other faces the couch. A giant oval, glass, coffee table rest in the middle, creating a surprising homey feel. John's eyes dart hastily around the room, capturing in everything shamelessly.

"Ah, Mycroft, I see that you are already trying to suck up to Mummy this holiday." Sherlock greets his brother with a bitter tenacity, just slipping into the room and placing himself next to John on the love seat, taking his spot before Mummy could claim hers. John smiles at the purposefulness of the action.

John realises that Sherlock is a tad bit jealous.

As the small family gets comfortable, Violet forced to sit in one of the chairs. John leans over to his husband nonchalantly.

"Did your mother take your toys when you were little?" The doctor is teasing and he knows it but the detective is in such a mood that it will only make the night worse if someone doesn't cheer him up.

Sherlock's face doesn't move but John knows the detective heard him. John leans away, deeming it a loss cause before Sherlock latches gently onto the doctor's arm, holding John in place.

"I don't like sharing." is all the detective says and John resist the urge to chuckle.

"I'm not one to be shared, I'm only yours." John whispers firmly and Sherlock nods. It's a nod of acknowledgment, not one of acceptance. "If you don't believe me, I guess I'll even show you when we get back to the flat." John says leaning away from Sherlock before the detective can say another word. John strikes up a conversation with Lestrade, a very animated, uninterruptable conversation. However, John does noticed the detective's mood perk up 100% after John's words.

A man comes around with champagne and John takes a glass, smiling and conversing. The doctor hasn't felt at home and this happy in a long time.

"Dinner is served," A voice calls into the room, over a loud speaker no doubt and John is slightly disappointed that a man in a suit didn't ring a gong of some sort. John shakes his head slightly at his movie knowledge and precedes to follow the congregation out.

Mummy is leading the way followed by Sherlock, Lestrade and John would have been next if a hand hadn't gripped his forearm and held the doctor in the room.

"Mycroft?" John questions, turning around to looking quizzically at the politician.

"It's official, John." Mycroft whispers in the empty room, leaning into the doctor's space.

John has long since learned of Mycroft and is quirks. The elder Holmes creepy way of communicating, usually involving sedans and rides to the Diogenes club that John didn't want to partake in, he is also used to the politician's honestly. Nowadays, it's easier to accept and humor Mycroft.

However, this doesn't mean John can't have some fun.

"You and Lestrade are finally got hitched?" John jokes, moving back into the parlor, sipping on the last of his champagne.

"No," Mycroft says, "that happened along time ago." Mycroft deadpans. John literally spits out his drink, like some cliched scene in a movie. Thankfully, he was turned slightly away from the politician that Mycroft missed most of the spray.

"What?" The doctor sputters, choking, champagne dripping down his chin.

"In June, shortly after Greg made a fully recovery." The politician states, watching John with the utmost curiosity.

"You didn't tell anyone." John remarks, finally dabbing at his chin with his sleeve, all remnants of the bubbly drink fading.

"I have enemies John, especially with the final collapse of Moriarty's empire, it would be too dangerous." Mycroft declares and if John would have had more champagne in his mouth he would have spit it out again.

"Collapse of Moriarty's empire?" John mutters, gazing stupidly into Mycroft's eyes, looking for lies and evidence of trickery.

"Merry Christmas, John." Mycroft says rather cheerfully. "That's what I wanted to tell you, It's official as of Tuesday."

"It's Saturday." is all John thinks to say through his shock.

"Oh come on John. It's a surprise, really." Mycroft huffs, very close to Sherlock's 'you're an idiot' tone. "It's part of my thank you gift, and once we find Moriarty, he will also be part of the gift." Mycroft adds.

"Mycroft, How-" John starts.

Mycroft, in an uncharacteristically brotherly gesture claps a hand onto John's shoulder.

"I can't tell you, John. Just know that it's done." Mycroft states proudly.

John nods in acknowledge, suddenly at a loss for words.

A few seconds pass in silent contemplation.

"So Moriarty is still out there then?" John questions, nodding slightly.

"Yes, John, but there is nothing of left of the organization, sans the man himself. He has nothing left, and soon he will be dead." Mycroft reassures, squeezing John's shoulder once before letting go and returning his hand to his side.

John contemplates this for a moment. Moriarty's empire is defeated, gone, kaput, forever. Could it really be true?

"Yes, John. It's true, I oversaw the entire operation myself, there is no way the Moriarty has any connections left in the world to rebuild his empire." Mycroft reassures warmly.

"That's..That's fantastic news, Mycroft." John exclaims, the overwhelming happiness finally capturing the doctor. Moriarty's empire is now no more. "I'm glad, really, but you don't have to thank me Mycroft." John adds, looking once again at the politician.

"All the same," Mycroft begins, slipping his hand into his own dinner jacket, "you saved Gregory's life and, in turn mine, so we...I owe you." Mycroft remarks thickly, pulling out an envelope and handing it over to John.

The doctor takes the envelope hesitantly.

"Mycroft, you shouldn't have." John declares, thumbing over the white material, the curiosity burning him.

"You don't even know what it is yet." Mycroft snaps lightheartedly and John chuckles. He opens the envelope and pulls out a piece of paper. Bold letters call out to him as he unfolds the paper gently, the doctor's eyes shoot up in surprise.

"The deed to Baker Street?" John exasperates, staring back down at the piece of paper and then back up to Mycroft. John's mouth agape, literally on the floor and everything.

"I offered Mrs. Hudson a very generous sum and if she chooses to stay it will be free of charge," Mycroft states, "however, with her new fortune I wouldn't be surprised if she moved closer to her sister, she is very fond of her." John literally has to resist the urge to hug the older man.

"I don't understand." John states, the little bit of confusion settling in his mind. Why is Mycroft doing this? Although a part of John already knows.

"You deserve it, Sherlock deserves it." Mycroft says, turning away from John and heading deeper into the parlor, towards the farthest window. His back to the door, and the light of the flames dancing on his contemplating and sentiment form. "You both can stay as long as you want at Baker Street, and if you chose to start a family, the 221A and 221C will make excellent nurseries."

John snorts.

"Can you see Sherlock raising children?" The doctor laughs, moving to join the politician staring out onto the grounds, which are unsurprisingly massive.

"Perhaps not, but you two will have more than enough room and you won't have to worry about the finances. And if you wish to move, I will be more than happy to pay for the next house you settle in." Mycroft adds.

John shakes his head with overwhelming happiness.

"Mycroft, I'm grateful, but is this really necessary?" John asks exasperated, turning his head to look at the pensive elder Holmes. Mycroft doesn't move and when he starts talking his tone is just as pensive as his expression.

"I saw the tape you know," Mycroft states bluntly, catching John off guard, a feat that seemed impossible considering the overwhelming news that John has had to endure in the past five minutes. "The one with Moriarty in the hospital room." Mycroft turns to face John and looks the doctor right in the eye. "You are a great man, John Watson. I've never been so proud to call you my brother-in-law."

There is that urge to hug Mycroft again, sneaking up on the doctor. The soldier suppresses it and listens.

"You saved Lestrade's life. Twice. And I told you once that I would be forever indebted to you, this is my way of slowly paying you back, John. Do not take it from me." Mycroft states sternly, staring at John with intimidation, almost daring.

John just nods, laughing to himself the stubbornness that comes with being a Holmes.

"Thank you, Mycroft." John says, "This," the doctor holds up the deed, "means a great deal."

"On the contrary, it is me who is thanking you." Mycroft responds warmly.

"Well then, you are welcome." John remarks, folding the piece of paper and tucking it into his jacket.

"As are you," The politician answers.

The pair stare at each other smile for a minute.

"John, as much fun as this is..." Mycroft states, the politician gesturing his head to the door.

"They will be wondering where we are." John finishes looking towards the open door and Mycroft nods in acceptance. "Just one more thing." John questions as they start to move towards the door.

Mycroft stops, his back facing the door and his hip leaning slightly against the arm of the love seat. The politician looks at John expectantly.

"Do you think Sherlock knows about the two of you?" John inquires, nodding in the general direction of the dining room.

Mycroft chuckles. "I know I didn't give it away and Lestrade's been too busy with recovery and work at the Yard." Mycroft states.

"He's going to be miffed." John laughs at the inevitable image.

"I would imagine so." Mycroft pronounces, laughing along with John.

"I'm bloody well not telling him." John declares sternly.

"You are going to throw your brother-in-law under the bus." Mycroft states, the first time John has ever seen the man act or have any sort of mock emotion, let alone mock sadness.

The site just sends the doctor into more giggles, a huge smile plastered on John's face.

John sees it before the sound echoes. The barrel of a gun staring at the doctor, the object's owner invisible to John's mind. John's face drops in a millisecond, turning into a firm line. John vaguely registers Mycroft's sudden frown and confusion. Instead, the soldier reaches out, grabbing the politician's lapels and yanking him forward.

A shot rings out, echoing loudly in the vast, almost empty room.

The two men crash onto the carpet, their backs to the fireplace, John had pulled them to rest behind the structure, the purple love seat offering protection.

John's breathing calms and the soldier in him comes out.

What the hell happened?

"Oh, Johnny boy. I know you are in here." The voice speaks, "I've come to play."

* * *

><p>Ooo, it's getting good. The end is near, now it's up to you if Moriarty dies or goes to prison.<p>

Death=no sequel

Prison = Sequel or at least the option for one.


	23. Finale

I hope this doesn't disappoint, I have a soft spot for BAMF!John.

Ah, here is the end.

There will be a sequel eventually but for now, this story is done with.

Still review.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>John stares at Mycroft in horror, the soldier in him letting down his mask for a second. The politician gazes back, his eyes wide but his look calm and neutral, the perfect reassurance for John.<p>

The soldier automatically reaches for his weapon, the one that isn't there.

John curses himself for not bringing it along, even though the practically of it is sound. _"Why would I need a gun at Mummy Holmes's house?"_ John thinks to himself.

John slides along the back of the love seat and peaks his head around the corner, just as he hears a click reverberate throughout the room.

Moriarty's back is turned as he shuts the giant doors to the parlor, effectively imprisoning the doctor and the politician. Just as Moriarty turns around, the soldier ducks behind the couch again, crawling back to Mycroft.

John looks at the politician, his mouth open and about to speak of their predicament when he notices that Mycroft's eyes are faintly blurred. John doesn't waste a moment, he grabs Mycroft, whose eyes gape in surprise, and lays the elder Holmes flat. The politician grunts softly at the force and movements.

Once John has Mycroft horizontal, the doctor ghost his hands over the politician's body. He notices the blood right away, soaking through the older man's jacket. John carefully pulls Mycroft's arm out of his suit, hisses and quieted grunts meet the doctor in reply.

"It's nothing, John." Mycroft whispers through gritted teeth.

"Bollocks, you are shot." John remarks sternly once the jacket is off, he probes the wound through Mycroft's white shirt, before apply pressure. It's messy and bloody and John can't get a good look at it.

"It's just the shoulder, non-threatening." Mycroft states, looking from his shoulder to John.

"You missed everything major, including the artery. Just keep pressure on it." John demands firmly, ripping one of Mycroft's white sleeve from his arm.

All evidence of the man in the room forgotten as John tries to make a tourniquet from Mycroft's ripped sleeve.

"Johnny, I know I got him." The sing song voice says, effectively reminding the doctor of the grave situation. "If you want him to get out of here alive, I suggest you come out from behind the couch."

John stares at Mycroft, who is, like always, rather neutral considering the pain the politician is in.

"No," The politician declares, grabbing John's shirt with his good arm, holding firm.

"I have too." John states, tearing Mycroft's hand away, "Stay lying down and keep pressure." The doctor orders, standing up facing the man of his nightmares.

When John erects fully, the site is unexpected. Moriarty had placed himself in one of the chairs, the same one Violet had occupied...good god had it been a mere ten minutes ago.

That's not the most shocking aspect. John is thoroughly surprised by Moriarty's appearance. The normally immaculate and put together man, is now rough and haggard. Moriarty's clothes are wrinkled and dirty, a faint evidence of a stubble upon the man's face.

All evidence of a man whose criminal organization has fallen.

"Ah, there are those pretty eyes." The Irishman exclaims brightly, his gun twirling in his fingers loosely, yet still very threatening. John doesn't respond, he stands his ground.

"Not very talkative today?" The masterminds asks innocently. John turns his head away in disgust.

"Don't be rude, Johnny." Moriarty snaps angrily and John turns his head back, not out of obedience but general interest at the man falling apart in front of the doctor's very eyes.

"What do you want Moriarty?" John asks disinterested, crossing his arms over his chest, defiantly.

"Why don't you come over to this couch and find out?" Moriarty says, reaching forward and patting the couch next to him. John doesn't move, fearing the worse; Moriarty is on the edge of a psychotic break.

Moriarty huffs angrily.

"Johnny, do not make me come over there." The Dublin man warns snidely, "I will not be in control of my trigger finger if I come any closer." To prove his point, the consulting criminal grips his gun tightly and points it towards the couch, clicking the safety off.

John looks nervously down at Mycroft, the politician is shaking his head, the color of his face is good and his fingers are holding tight against his wound. The elder Holmes is in decent shape, but that doesn't mean he needs another bullet.

John slowly, in resignation, moves around the love seat in front of him and then around the coffee table, closing the distance between him and Moriarty with every step. Finally, John stops short, in front of the settee next to Moriarty's chair. The consulting criminal pats the purple fabric encouragingly. John doesn't hesitate, Mycroft and his own life at risk. The doctor sits down obediently, placing himself on the very edge of the cushions, his hands resting firmly on his knees. His entire body tense and in preparation for what could happen next.

"That won't do, Johnny Boy." Moriarty says teasingly and before John can react, the criminal mastermind is upright and then plopping himself next to the doctor on the couch. Effectively placing himself extremely close to the doctor. John winces away but Moriarty snakes a hand around the doctor's shoulder, trapping him. Moriarty leans back and pulls the soldier with him so the both of them are relaxing into the settee. Well, Moriarty is relaxing John is still as tense and slightly disgusted as ever, yet the doctor doesn't struggle. Moriarty's gun is jabbing into John's side, forcing the doctor to remain still as Moriarty manhandles him.

John wants to squirm away, the hands gripping his shoulder repulse him.

"So," John starts, closing his eyes for a brief second, willing himself to remain calm, "I'm closer, are you going to tell me why you are here?"

"It's simply really, I'm here to kill you." Moriarty sings, leaning his head onto John's shoulder, ironically the shoulder that Montague shot more than a year and a half ago.

"Why?" John asks curiously, shifting uncomfortably as the criminal tightens his grip painfully before loosening.

"Why? WHY?" John must have hit a nerve. The gun in his side jabs painfully and suddenly the criminal mastermind is standing, looming over John who remains leaning against the back of the couch. "You want to know WHY?"

John doesn't know what to do, the reaction is nothing like the doctor has ever seen coming from Moriarty, the man is definitely on psychotic break.

"Johnny, I only wanted you, I would have been fine with just you." The mastermind exclaims, the gun pointed at John's chest, swaying slightly as Moriarty's anger ripples through him.

"Now, YOU'VE taken everything from me." Moriarty bellows, and John flinches. Suddenly, a sickening thud echoes the room and John feels a sudden pain on his face, forcing the doctor to list to one side from the force. The butt of Moriarty's gun is bloodied slightly and John forces himself upright, moving a hand to his jaw, massaging the muscles slightly, accessing the cut and the rest of the damage on his face.

"What the hell?" John yells angrily, spitting blood out of his mouth and onto Moriarty's shoe.

The man doesn't notice, instead he looks at John, his body shaking and his face fuming.

"I never had to get my hands dirty. I don't like getting my hands dirty." Moriarty screams and hits John again, the doctor falls to the side of the couch with a painful grunt. The soldier lifts himself up again, but says nothing. He stares with intent at the criminal mastermind.

"Moran is dead," Moriarty cries, using his fist to hit John again. "My empire has fallen." Another fist impacts with John's face, the beating starting to make John a tad fuzzy.

John is too busy cataloging the damage, he doesn't notice when Moriarty leans in, his face directly in front of John. "And it's all your fault." Moriarty states and pummels John with a fist, sending John onto the couch again. This time, John struggles to sit up, his face is bleeding and he is pretty sure his noise is broken.

The soldier lays there for a minute before trying to get up. Hands are on him and he uses all his power to brush them off. John sits up again but before he makes it fully upright, Moriarty straddles the doctor, forcing John to lay horizontally on the couch again, one the doctor's foot planting on the ground.

"Moriarty," John warns sternly, his voice apparently not affected by his bruises. "Get off." John's voice is smooth and threatening.

"No." Moriarty responds simply, jabbing the gun against John's temple. The doctor winces in response but writhes beneath the mastermind. Suddenly, images from the small room are trudged through the forefront of John's memories, which only make John struggle more.

"Do you remember the last time we were like this?" Moriarty entices, leaning down and whispering in John's ear.

The doctor tries to get away but Moriarty forces his gun against John's temple again and the doctor is forced to still.

"I remember." Moriarty says with a disgustingly seductive tone. "I believe I left a mark the last time. Pity I can't see it, with all these clothes."

The consulting criminal's free hand flies to John's white shirt, his dinner jacket already unbuttoned and sprawled beneath him. John's head is fuzzy but he knows where his memories take him and he does not want a repeat. He tries to slap the hands away but Moriarty backhands him again, causing John's head to loll to one side.

"I'm not in the mood for games John." Moriarty says evilly and starts to unbutton John's shirt slowly. One button, then two, then the third, John's chest becoming more and more exposed. John's head is reeling, in memories, in pain, he doesn't notice the door opening. He does, however, notice the voice that rings in the room.

"John, what is-" Sherlock starts, his hands still on the door, pushing it open halfway. Sherlock is frozen in shock at the site. His brother is nowhere to be seen and his arch nemesis is straddling his husband who appears to be slightly dazed and fresh bruises in early stages on the doctor's face.

Moriarty looks up at the intrusion with glee.

"Get off of him." Sherlock spits acidly Moriarty stops unbuttoning John's shirt and lays the hand lazily on John's exposed torso, his fingers circling the skin absentmindedly. The doctor attempts to wriggle his body, turning it and twisting it so he can set eyes upon his husband, but Moriarty is to heavy and John is getting weaker from his pain and numerous hits to the head.

The doctor gives up, his head throbbing and his memories in control. Brief flashes of John in the room, the fluorescent bulbs blindly the doctor, Moriarty on top of him. His face contorted into a hallucinated monster. John has to blink a few times to bring himself back to the present.

"Its so nice of you to come and play, Sherlock." Moriarty sings, "You are a tad bit late, I expected you about a minute ago. Getting rusty?" Moriarty cries with glee.

Sherlock pushes the door open fully and enters the room, his hands behind his back, his face blank.

"It's very stupid of you to be here Moriarty." Sherlock deadpans and John is forced back to the hospital, those exacts words coming from John's mouth. The doctor wonders if it's on purpose.

"This may be, but I don't intend  
>to make it out of here alive." Moriarty remarks, his fingers moving to the next button on John's shirt.<p>

Sherlock instinctively takes a step closer and John can feel the gun pushing into his temple harder. The doctor lets out a faint yelp in response and tries to struggle against the metal object.

Moriarty makes the tsk noise and Sherlock stops suddenly, his eyes darting between John and Moriarty in cold fury, Sherlock is forced to watch as the consulting criminal moves on to John's next button.

Through the pain and haze of his brain, John tries to shoo the mastermind's hand away but Moriarty's free hand pushes John's away, the doctor's muscles weaken.

Something has to be done, Moriarty cannot win, not after all of the shite John has had to survive in the past year and a half, but the doctor is at a lost of what needs to be done. No ideas come to him.

Keeping his eyes on Sherlock, the consulting criminal dips his head down to John's ear, the doctor jerks away but Moriarty continues.

"I do, however, intend to take as many as you out with me." The psychotic man whispers, low enough where Sherlock can't hear.

"Just me." John states thickly through his fog. "Just take me." The doctor is sort of pleading, willing to protect the genius by all means necessary.

"Your nobility will be the death of you John Watson." Moriarty exclaims, moving the gun to John's chest.

The doctor's head lolls to one side, turning away from the man on his body.

Something has to be done.

With one quick movement, John's hand, finding adrenaline and strength, reaches for Moriarty's gun. The doctor effectively pushes the offending object of his chest just as a shot rings out milliseconds later, the bullet embedding itself into the floor.

John doesn't see it, but Sherlock flinches as the gun goes off. The detective just stands frozen in shock, staring at the bullet hole in the carpet.

The soldier is too busy to notice as he wrestles the gun out of Moriarty's clutches.

"Sherlock, duck." John screams and the gun is propelled upwards, in the general direction of Sherlock. The detective hides, crouching with agility behind the nearest chair while John's hand stays firmly on the gun whilst the other tries to find Moriarty's neck. With a shove of John's upper body, against all odds, the doctor is able to force the two of them up into the sitting position. Moriarty falls backwards slightly but makes up for it by throwing a punch in John's direction. In order to avoid it John has to let go of Moriarty and the gun.

The mastermind is standing up before John can readjust.

"That. was. very. rude." Moriarty says through heavy breaths and gritted teeth, raising the gun, once again to John's chest.

The doctor is growling now, the adrenaline in control.

John, without thinking, launches himself off the couch and into Moriarty. The mastermind's face widens in surprise, so much so that the gun doesn't fire. Instead, John knocks the gun out of Moriarty's hand with a swipe of his hand, sending it across the room. With the gun gone, John rams his shoulder into the consulting criminal's midsection.

The pair fall backwards, suspended in midair for a second before falling onto the coffee table. The force and weight of their bodies instantly shattering it, glass flying everywhere.

John grunts in pain and can feel the slicing of the glass pieces breaking his skin. The force of the impact takes the wind out the doctor, John gasps in breaths and tries to roll upright, away from Moriarty who remains immobile. His back shoots pain signals through John as the soldier successfully makes it to one side, unfortunately, the doctor is facing Moriarty. John attempts to roll onto his knees, getting ready to propel himself at the criminal when Moriarty starts moving.

The Irishman's head lolls to one side and John is up before he realises it. The doctor straddles Moriarty and a fist hits the lanky form with force. John hands connect with the glass littered carpet at the force of the punch, John having to brace himself against he solidity of the carpet, before he pulls back for another punch.

Suddenly, a hand is on John's neck, squeezing and constricting John's airflow. The doctor's hands fly up to his throat trying to pry off the hands.

Moriarty takes the moment of John's distraction to grab the soldier and flip them. With a thud, John is on his back, the doctor grunting in pain and Moriarty using both his hands and his weight to choke John.

The soldier is gasping for breath and his eyes start to blur, he vaguely sees the flash of white and purple, before he closes his eyes.

Suddenly, the weight of Moriarty is gone and the fingers around his throat disappear.

"Don't move." Violet's voice echoes in John's mind. The mother Holmes had torn into the room and ripped the small Dublin man off of John.

The doctor rolls to the side away from Moriarty, the glass sharp and his coughs racking and throaty.

"John." Sherlock's voice calls and John's eyes are squeezed shut, trying to calm his breathing.

Hands are on the doctor and John flinches away.

"John. It's me." The worried baritone calls and John smiles, opening his eyes. Sherlock pushes the doctor onto his back again and John's head lolls to the side involuntarily. John is looking at Violet, in her evening dress. The mother Holmes is holding a gun firmly, aimed directly for Moriarty's head. John gapes in surprise before turning his head back to find the detective.

Actual tears stare back at him, the wetness settling in the man's eyes and John's face softens at the site.

"It's okay, 'M fine." John slurs and wheezes slightly, his head fuzzy and his nose bleeding. Not to mention the glass cuts on his back and chest smart. John tries to sit up, but a firm hand on his chest stops him.

"Don't. John. Just stay still." The detective commands, his tone weak with emotion.

"Sherlock-" John starts, turning to face the detective.

"Just stay still." The genius says with annoyance, his hands ghosting over John whilst angry tears fall.

"It's okay." John states, bringing his hand to cup the younger man's cheek. "Just a flesh wound."

Sherlock shakes his head wordlessly and John feels tiny, harmless pressures on his face, the pads of Sherlock's fingers caressing John's bruises.

John catches Sherlock's wrist with a wince, the detective stops and looks at the doctor laying on the ground.

"It's okay, really." John states nodding very faintly. A scuttle beside John catches the doctor's attention. John lazes his head to one side in time to see multiple men in black suits, hauling a bleeding Moriarty up and dragging him out. Violet, in all her diligence, follows silently, the gun still aimed.

Somehow, John feels that the fragile yet strong woman is a bit under qualified for the job but through the fog John chalks it up to motherhood. Anything to protect her sons, and John smiles warmly when he realises that includes him too.

A sudden thought streaks across the doctor's mind.

"Mycroft." John suddenly wheezes and is up before Sherlock can push him down again. Glass cuts through John's exposed hands and wrists as the doctor pushes himself up, running over to Mycroft behind the couch.

"John. Stop." Sherlock calls behind him, still kneeling over the spot John had just vacated.

John ignores the detective and rounds the back of the love seat.

"Mycroft." John exclaims forcing himself down next to the politician wincing at the pain and pounding in his head. The man looks far worse than the last time John saw him. The politician's face is pale and there is a pool of blood below his arm.

"Nice to see you John." Mycroft answers weakly.

John's hand finds Mycroft's shoulder and pushes his hand onto the politician's tourniquet.

"Shite." John exhales, taking his hand off of Mycroft's wound.

"What? John, what's wrong?" Sherlock's voice calls, the detective kneeling down beside John, looking at the doctor.

John stares down at his bloody, cut up hands and then stares up at Sherlock.

"I can't put the right amount of pressure." John says frustrated.

"I got it," Sherlock states pushing his hands down onto his older brother.

John checks Mycroft's pulse while Sherlock pushes firmly onto the wound.

"Behind the couch, Lestrade." Sherlock shouts suddenly and John is startled out of his doctor mode and looking at the doctor quizzically.

"Sherlock, how could you possible know that I-" Lestrade starts, his voice echoing throughout the room. Greg stops once he sees Mycroft, his husband bleeding on the floor.

"Bloody hell." Lestrade exclaims and falls to the floor beside Mycroft's head. "Oh my god."

The politician smiles feebly. "I guess it's my turn now." He states and Lestrade chuckles humorlessly with thick emotion.

"It doesn't work like that, Love." Greg responds, cradling Mycroft's head in his lap, tears starting down his face.

"I'm okay, Gregory." Mycroft reassures, "It's not that bad."

Mycroft coughs suddenly and Greg looks helplessly up at John.

"He'll be fine, Greg. He just needs an ambulance." John says, fumbling for his phone, the blood making his movements slippery and clumsy.

"What happened to your hands?" Greg shouts abruptly and John looks up at the DI.

"It's fine." John says but Greg continues to start in exasperation. "It's a long story."

Finally, John manages to get his mobile out when Violet enters the room again.

"The ambulances is here," Her smooth voice says.

Sherlock pokes his head above the back of the couch and motions for his mother to come over, the paramedics following behind her.

"You called for them yourself?" John asks incredulous, looking down at the politician.

"How do you think Sherlock reacted so fast?" Mycroft remarks, wiggling his mobile with his good hand.

John chuckles before he and Sherlock back away, letting the paramedics work on the politician.

Sherlock grips John's waist as the doctor stands. The adrenaline and the force of will are leaving John quickly, and pain and blood are mixing with John's thoughts. As soon as they are standing upright, John's knees buckle.

"John." Sherlock calls loudly, worry and anxiety evident in his smooth baritone.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." John answers, holding on to Sherlock so he doesn't careen to the floor. The detective stares at him with disbelief and panic.

"John you can't hold yourself up." The detective remarks sternly, proving a point by shifting John's weight so that Sherlock is in control.

"I just need to sit." John calls, feeling suddenly dizzy. The doctor feels them moving and soon the cushions of the love seat are beneath him.

John sighs in relief, leaning against the soft fabric, closing his eyes.

"John, you need to go to the hospital." Sherlock states, sitting next to the soldier, his hand wrapped protectively around the doctor's waist.

John raises a bleeding hand dismissively. "Hospitals are boring." The man says, opening one eye and gazing smugly at the genius.

Sherlock narrows his eyes and glares at the doctor. John chuckles.

"Nevertheless, you need one." Sherlock says frustrated.

"No, what I need is a few bandages. Maybe some stitches that I can apply myself." John states stubbornly, the pain from the glass and his headache meshing into one.

"John." Sherlock pinches the bridge of his noise in warning.

"Please." John pleads, looking straight at Sherlock. "I'd rather not spend a night in the A&E."

Sherlock stares at the doctor, accessing his injuries and ghosting fingers across the bleeding cuts in John's hands.

Who is Sherlock kidding? He can't resist John, never has been and probably never will.

"Fine." Sherlock agrees and John smiles complacently, leaning into Sherlock, laying his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

Soon, a paramedic is in front of them, John doesn't know at what point Sherlock had beckoned the uniformed men in front of the doctor, John must have dozed a little bit.

Sherlock helps John sit up and shrug the bloodied dinner jacket off the doctor's shoulders. Then John fumbled with the rest of his white shirt's buttons, shivering and shuddering at the memories of why the shirt had been unbuttoned that far to begin with. Finally, John's torso is bare and the paramedics go about bandaged and accessing John's injuries, both uniformed men taking turns applying antiseptic and even some stitches under John's insistence.

During this time, the other paramedics had taken Mycroft out on a stretcher.

Sherlock stares at John throughout the entire time the medics are working on the doctor. The cuts on John's torso are expansive, but not deep. The shallow wounds mix in with John's white scars that Leonard left. The soldier purposefully doesn't look down, he instead stares across the way, watching idly, as men in suits and occasionally the Holmes's staff pass by the door.

Sherlock doesn't move, he grips John's wrist as the paramedic stitches and bandages.

"Your nose isn't broken, but I wouldn't get into anymore fights for a couple of weeks." One the paramedic states, placing butterfly bandages on the cuts that Moriarty's gun had left.

John sighs in annoyance, and the paramedics laughs, thinking the doctor is being sarcastic. If the uniformed men only knew the truth.

John's hands are a different matter, the paramedics takes out all of the glass but the cuts are deep. "You should really go to the hospital." The paramedics urge, dabbing the cuts with antiseptic and preceding to wrap them carefully.

"Thank you, but," John states warmly before Sherlock can interject, "I'm a doctor, I can take care of them at my flat."

"If you say so." The man remarks just as Violet enters the room. "You should be good to go, you don't have a concussion, but just take it easy."

Sherlock nods at the man and John smiles in thanks.

The uniformed men grab their bags and leave the room. John watches them go and meets his mother-in-law's eyes somewhere in between the paramedics leaving and her entering. The doctor suddenly feels a pang of guilt.

"Violet, I'm so sorry." John cries with blunt force, not even bothering to word a thorough apology in his haste.

The mother Holmes shakes her head in response and walks over to the doctor, kneeling in front of him. John stares at the woman with shame.

"Nonsense, John." Violet says, gripping John's bandaged hands gently. "I'm just glad its over with. Mycroft had been telling me about that horrible man for months."

John stares at the woman with awe. This woman, not only raised two of the smartest and most intimidating men in the world but she also pointed a gun at one of the most dangerous criminal as well.

It's all very Holmesian.

"I guess it is over with." John states finally, staring at Violet in shock.

"Yes, John. Moriarty has nobody left to help him, he will sit in one of Mycroft's top secret jails for the rest of his miserable life." Sherlock says with finality and all John can think is happiness.

And the doctor is finally happy, like a huge weight that Moriarty held is gone, and the soldier may still have nightmares and he will fight with his husband and resist Mycroft's kidnappings but one thing will be certain.

He will be happy, and no one will be able to take it away from him.

* * *

><p>The end.<p>

Sniff sniff. I never thought I would be sad to see the ending but one gets so wrapped up in their own writing that it just tears my heart out that it's end.

But don't worry, there will be a sequel, it will be a while, when I'm bored or I have no other stories going on, but there will be a sequel. I'm thinking dealing with John's flashbacks more and what Moriarty did to him in that room. What do you think?

Don't forget to review and alert so you guys know when I post it.

Also, if you find yourself missing my writing, check out Don't Touch Me, which is still in the works.

Ta ta for now.

I can't express how grateful I am for each and every one of you.


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